


Four Mothers

by blueenvelopes935



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27011869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueenvelopes935/pseuds/blueenvelopes935
Summary: Sex, power, and Star Wars.  Four short stories about the worst-best, easy-hardest job a woman can have:  mom.  But these are not ordinary women and their sons will be far from anonymous.  Who says women are an afterthought in a galaxy far, far away?  The Force is with the hand that rocks the cradle.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Hell hath no fury . . .

**Author's Note:**

> You can probably guess who some of these women will be. I have scenarios for each of them and plan to update from time to time. There is no overarching story here. Each chapter is self-contained. I’m taking a break from epic length stories and writing down some ideas that have been rattling around in my head for some time.

**_Circa 47BBY, Pre-Prequel Era, Fifteen years before Episode One_ **

**_Coruscant, the capital world of the Galactic Republic_ **

He’s bored in a long ceremonial Senate session when he first sees her. The whisps of luminescent green mist swirling about her form tell him she’s not really standing there across the room. But if not for that telltale sign of her Force energy, he would be fooled. She looks very convincingly real. As far as Force tricks goes, it's a good one.

She says nothing. She just looks her fill with a bold stare.

He can’t help it. His mind immediately reverts to their nights together. To the feel of her mind penetrating his consciousness as he penetrated her body. The bitch witch of Dathomir did not disappoint. She had been excellent in bed. Which was as expected, for she’s had plenty of practice.

Who talks first? Does he talk first? No. Neither of them says a thing.

Does she know what he’s thinking? She might. Because before she disappears from view, she licks her lips. 

Well, that was . . . er . . . what was that exactly? With her, you never know. It’s why she is so exciting and terrifying at the same time. He forces himself to blink and clear his mind. He can’t let himself fall prey to her thrall again. That woman is dangerous for many reasons. He is glad there are light years between them. And thankfully, no one else seemed capable of seeing her.

The next time she appears he is finishing up a briefing in his Senate chambers. She’s turned away this time. He sees her naked back. Has he caught her in the act of undressing? No, she is dressing, he decides, as he watches her slip one long, lithe arm into a crimson gown. She half turns, as if she is caught unaware, but he is not fooled. Despite her double take of surprise, he knows she intends this pose. The green tendrils of mist betray her power at work.

She turns to face him now, her regal gown still hanging unfastened. She clasps it loosely to her chest with her arms. It is the demure posture of a woman far more chaste than she is. He suppresses a snort at the showy display of girlish modesty. This woman is a real piece of work. What sort of fool does she think he is? But he dismisses his visitors nonetheless. Because she’s the most interesting thing that’s happened all day.

When everyone is gone, she speaks. “Sheev.” No one says his name like she does. It’s at least three syllables in her throaty purr.

“Lilith.” He sits back in his desk chair and considers her. All of her. Like the other Nightsisters, she has a tall, narrow frame spare of flesh but rich in sinewy muscle. Her body matches her angular face with cheekbones for days that contrast so vividly with those petulant lips. She is strength married to beauty with a dash of the alien exotic. Add in the Force, and the result is a femme fatale. Her allure had been irresistible.

“I need your help. Come to me on Dathomir.” She says the name of her homeworld like she says his name. With long, drawn out syllables and singsong relish. _Dath-o-meeer._ “Come to me, my lord.”

Not a chance. He counters with feigned regret, “I’m a busy man.”

“You are a powerful man,” she corrects him. “Powerful men make other men busy on their behalf.” There is the ghost of a coy smile about her lips as she appeals to his pride.

It works. But still, he resists. “I’m a busy, powerful man,” he amends.

That’s code for telling her the affair is over. He’s back on Coruscant after the Senate recess. There is business to be done and he is a public figure whose life must be above reproach. It’s hard enough as is to keep Cresta under wraps. He doesn’t need to add another high maintenance woman to his already complicated personal life.

Lilith now drops her arms that clutch her dress. She lifts them to beseech him. It bares her torso to the waist. It’s a dramatic but somehow casual gesture that is no doubt premeditated to reveal her body. 

“Lord Sidious . . . Sheeeeeeeev,” she implores, those alabaster breasts heaving. “I need you. Daaaaah-ling, come to me on Dath-o-meeer. . .” 

No way. But he’s enjoying the view, so he keeps her talking. “Is something amiss?”

“Yes. My son, my Maul, is missing.”

“He’ll turn up. He’s probably with the Brothers. That kid runs wild and you know it.”

“Maul is gone. He is not on Dathomir.”

“He’ll turn up,” he lies again.

She isn’t fooled. “There was only one way off our planet. Your ship, Sheev,” she accuses. “Did he stowaway with you? You know how he loved your stories of Coruscant.”

He shrugs. “I will ask my security detail if they’ve seen him.”

“Bring him home. I want my son back. No questions asked,” she promises. “And,” Lilith adds as her eyelids half close and her lips slightly part, “I would like to see you again.” One elegant hand now traces a languid line down from her throat past the hollow between her breasts to rest on the soft slope of her waist.

Against his better judgement, his eyes follow that hand. His mouth goes dry. His groin tightens. This woman with her bewitching power, frank attitude, and juicy cunt is as beguiling as ever. She knows it too.

“Show me your power,” she goads him in her contralto. “Show me, Lord Sidious,” she purrs. “You know I love your pow-ahhhh.”

This is her schtick. She shamelessly flirts with Dark power like she shamelessly flirts with him. Well, she’s pretty shameless generally. Just like he is.

And what the Hell? It’s just him in his office now. So, he drops the pretense and reveals his yellow eyes. He is his true Dark self. It’s a Sith lord’s analog to her witch’s striptease. She’s flirting in the Force, so he flirts back.

And damn if she doesn’t drop that hand from her waist even lower now. “Yessss . . . “ her voice is a hiss of satisfaction. “I miss that pow-ahhhh,” she half groans as she reaches between her legs beneath the dress fabric. “Come to me on Dathomir,” she invites. “Come lay with me again when you bring back my boy.”

That will never happen. But this is hot, so he goes with it. As her fingers start to move and her form begins to writhe, he slips a hand into his own robes beneath his waistband. It’s not how he thought this afternoon would go, but it’s a nice pick-me-up. Just the sight of that husky voiced siren has got him feeling randy. And with Cresta still pouting on Alderaan, things have been a bit lonely. Lilith disappears into thin air just as he satisfies himself. Her laughing voice echoes in his mind for a few seconds. Is she mocking him? He isn’t sure.

The third time she appears to him, he starts to get worried that maybe they have accidentally created an old-style Force bond. He certainly hopes not. That will be a disaster. He’ll never be rid of the bitch witch of Dathomir.

“How are you doing this?” he demands She’s not projecting, is she? She can’t be. The effort would kill her.

She flashes her enigmatic smile. And just look at those bedroom eyes. “Do not underestimate my pow-ahhhh,” she chides him, looking like she might eat him.

He doesn't underestimate her. This sorcerer woman is dangerous. Her exotic beauty, her strange ways, and her impressive skills combined for a magnetic lure when they met in the flesh. Even now, light years away appearing through the Force, the temptation is real. And Darth Sidious can resist every temptation but the temptation to power. Fucking the witch had been like fucking the Force. It had been simply amazing.

He could get on a ship right now and go bang her like she wants. But then he would have to explain that he stole her kid. Plus, who knows if he would escape her a second time? That man-eating enchantress is unlike any woman he has ever met. If he returns, she might just consume him. He’s had duels that drained him less than sex with her did. It would be a glorious way to go though . . . 

His mind wanders back to those brief days and . . . he stops. He blinks to reclaim his thoughts. What is he doing? He needs to focus. This is exactly what she wants. For him to return so she can capture him and use him to bargain for her boy with Plagueis.

How humiliating would that be? And who knows if his Master would actually ransom him? He and Plagueis aren’t exactly friends. But the Muun is deeply invested in him after their years together. It would be a stupid move not to save him.

Did you kill him? Darth Plagueis had cornered him immediately when he returned four days ago from the mission to Dathomir. No. I stole him, he answered. And the mother? I fucked her, he bragged. After his initial shock, the big Muun had thrown his head back and laughed out loud. Then he clapped him on the back and called him a true Sith.

When he presented the witch’s kid to Plagueis, his Master had remained silent for a long moment. For his part, young Maul had been more curious than afraid. He had smiled up at the Sith Master as he waved his left hand and conjured green Dathomiran ichor—here on Coruscant!—out of thin air. With a talent far beyond his tender years, the happy-go-lucky Zabrak boy had summoned the Force to create an actual flower. These grow on my world, the kid told the Sith Master, as he presented the bloom like the feat was no big deal.

Can I keep him? Sheev had begged for the little boy like a child begs to keep a pet he brought home. The Muun had been noncommittal. We shall see, he answered. We shall see . . .

He takes that as a yes. No matter what Plagueis ultimately says, he is keeping the kid. If he has to fake the boy’s death to satisfy the Muun, he will. Because that kid has far too much potential to waste. He plans to raise him and train him so that little Maul will kill the Muun for him one day. That means the happy-go-lucky Nightbrother will never again go home to mother.

And look, here’s Lilith Talzin again, as if on cue. Half-naked and here to seduce him and scream at him. And hey, he likes sex as much as the next guy. But he likes power more. And power is to be had here in Senate where he keeps angling for the Chancellor role. This woman has become a distraction. It’s a problem. He can’t keep his mind on legislation and speeches when she keeps showing up.

At first, her surprise Force visits were a fun diversion. Sort of a sexy interlude when he could drop the nice guy Senator Palpatine pose and flash his yellow eyes and be who he really is. But they’re getting tedious. The woman is a nag with her repeated appearances multiple times a day to plead for her son. He’s done with her haranguing. This needs to stop. So when Lilith next appears and starts jawing on about Maul, he comes clean.

“I have him. I took him. He’s mine.”

Her eyes flash and her face scowls. She looks as if green fire might shoot out her ears. “Maul is mine! He is my boy! He belongs on Dathomir! He is a Nightbrother!”

Yep, she’s pissed. Like he knew she would be. Well, she needs to get over it. “He belongs to the Sith now,” he informs her.

She says something in a language he doesn’t know, but it sure sounds bad. She switches to standard Basic now as she threatens, “If you kill him, Sheev, I will kill you!

“Is that a promise?” he smirks, safely on Coruscant.

“Do not underestimate my power, Sith.”

Whatever. He is smug as he condescends. “We wouldn’t even be a fair fight. Darkness is supreme.”

“You’re gravely mistaken,” she snaps.

Irritated at her disrespect, he schools her on the ways of the Sith. “It is you who are mistaken about a great many things. In time, you will see . . . the Jedi will see . . . the whole galaxy will see . . . once more the Sith will rule the galaxy.” And when her little boy grows and kills Plagueis for him, he will rule the Sith. “The Force is with us,” he announces. “And now, Maul is with us as well.”

“You harm Maul and I will make you pay! You have never known suffering like you will feel from me!” she thunders.

“Bold words for a woman who can’t leave her homeplanet.”

“Do not underestimate my power!” 

He cocks his head at her now as he muses aloud, “Did you think he of all people would remain in obscurity at your little village on your backwater world? That he would be content with your silly tricks and spells? You should thank me, Lilith. Because I can give Maul so much more as my Apprentice.”

“You will ruin him!”

“I will train him.”

“To kill your Master?”

Fuck, she’s good. She’s very good. Nothing gets past her.

“I know the Sith and I know you, Sheev Palpatine,” she observes. “You love power and that means you don’t share power well.”

He starts bargaining. “I can train your boy to be my Apprentice. He will learn both of our traditions. He will be a formidable foe as both a Sith and a Nightbrother.”

“Only if you kill your Master,” she points out. 

Maul will do the killing, he plots. But he refuses to acknowledge that he needs her magical, super-powered kid to do his dirty work for him. “Think of it,” he cajoles. “Your power and my power combined in little Maul.”

The irate witch declares, “I have foreseen his future—Maul is destined for greatness! He is the Chosen One!”

“Then he must stay with me and train with me,” he argues. “Think on it, Lilith. You will know it to be true.” He flashes a sly smile. “Darth Maul of Dathomir has a very nice ring to it.”

She shrieks back, “You Sith dare to believe you can subvert the will of the Force??”

Of course. Did she really think that the Sith would allow the boy born to destroy them and to balance the Force to live?

“This is the only way Maul gets to live—“

“You kill him and I’ll—“

“I’m saving him! My Master sent me to Dathomir as an assassin. My mission was to kill Maul!” All that business about learning from the witches was just a cover story. “If I return him, I assure you that Plagueis will arrive to kill Maul himself. He’s terrified of the Chosen One!” With a sharp look, he piles on, “Plagueis will kill you too, Lilith. So you don’t birth another messiah brat after the first one’s dead.”

That shuts her up.

“The only way my Master will allow Maul to live is if he’s an ally—if he’s reared a Sith. I didn’t steal your boy, I saved him!” And that’s revisionist history, but he goes with it. It’s his go-to posturing—he likes to present himself as the hero, rather than the villain. “Think it over,” he tells her as she frowns.

The witch does consider it. Hours later, she is back haunting him in the Force again. They rehearse her usual accusations and threats at the outset. But she’s coming around, he can tell. 

So he puts it to her: “Well? Are we agreed for me to train Maul?”

“You will teach him all you know?”

Hell, no. No Sith Master does that. But he lies anyway: “Yes.”

“You will take care of him? You will raise him as befits a prince?”

“Yes. He will live in luxury. He will receive an enviable education and an elite upbringing.” To do otherwise might reflect badly on him. In fact, he plans to make a big show of his adopted near-human, but not-human child to posture for the alien vote. He’s not about a little political virtue signaling.

The witch now corners him with yet another demand. “Will you love him?”

Love him? Love him?? He sniffs, “The Sith do not love.” Well, he loves himself. Does that count? And he sometimes loves Cresta when she’s not cheating on him and acting righteous when he kills the guy on Alderaan she’s been sleeping with. But love an Apprentice who he’s going to train as the sacrificial lamb to slay his Master? Well, no. Why do that? The point of the boy is that he’s expendable and conveniently overpowered. Best not to get emotions involved.

Love is a dealbreaker. The witch balks. “Maul is mine! Bring him home!” Mother Talzin now starts in on more threats and warnings, bragging about her power and the future. He’s heard it before. He tunes her out.

That infuriates her. Lilith now lapses into that strange dialect of hers which makes it sound like she’s speaking in tongues. That’s some freaky shit, to be honest. Made all the more scary by his complete incomprehension of the magic afoot. Whatever voodoo this witch is mumbling, he’s heard enough.

“Are you done?”

“I’m just getting started,” she huffs. Then she resumes that spell she’s casting.

It’s unnerving. He’s getting paranoid. “What is that you’re doing? What does that mean?” he mutters.

She looks up and her stormy eyes pin him. “I am cursing you, Darth Sidious. You will get what you want—all of it. And then you, like every Sith before you, will lose it to your Apprentice. You might as well bring my boy back now, Sheev. Lest he be the one to murder you.”

“Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side!” he rages for lack of any better response. For truly, he is a bit unnerved by her hex.

“You tell yourself that, Sheev. Every day, tell yourself that. But remember that the Coven predates the Sith. We were here before you. We know things that the Sith do not. Our magic is eternal,” she brags.

He gulps hard. Then he doubles down on his best argument. “Plagueis will kill Maul if I bring him back!” His Master might kill him too for being so stupid.

“I’ll take that chance,” Lilith retorts. “Bring it on!” she taunts. She means it, he can tell. For truly, she has never looked more fierce. In a weird way, it’s kind of hot.

Their shouting match ends. That night, Plagueis informs him that he can keep Maul. The crafty Muun will agree to let him raise the boy . . . for now. Let us see how he matures, his Master decides. We have plenty of time to kill him.

All in all, it’s a three-way win. He gets an Apprentice to advance his plots, his Master feels better about the whole Chosen One prophecy, and the kid gets to live. The only one who’s unhappy is Mother Talzin and she’ll get over it in time.

But her anger gives him pause. He knows he has made a powerful enemy. And just in case the bitch witch’s hex has some bite, he resolves to make her son love him as a father, not just as a Sith Master. He will rear Maul to be loyal. That means he will at least pretend to love the kid . . . for now.

When Lilith appears again, he commits to care for the boy. Does she believe him? He’s not sure. But she doesn’t offer to rescind her curse. Instead, she warns him sternly, “You will answer to me for Maul.” They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but watching Lilith now he thinks Hell has nothing on the mother witch of Dathomir. 


	2. Chapter 2: Well behaved women seldom make history

_Circa 3994BBY, Old Republic Era_

_Coruscant, the Galactic Republic_

If there is such a thing as luck, she has it. Well . . . at first glance, she has it. 

She was born into one of the leading families of the Empire. For generations, her menfolk have ruled armies and presided over temples. She counts no fewer than five relatives who have served on the Dark Council. Those Lords were the celebrated achievers of their day. They answered only to the Emperor himself. It is a fierce heritage that makes her family much sought after for their mentorship. Her clan’s vast network of Master and Apprentice relationships spans virtually the entire officer corps of the Imperial Army. 

But prestige is not confined to her family’s men. Their women are a social clique to be reckoned with. By now, she has served on the board of every important charitable institution on Dromund Kaas. Those organizations she does not currently help govern, her mother or one of her aunts or sisters-in-law does. One call from them opens doors and creates opportunities. They know who to contact to prompt betrothals, ensure school admissions, or arrange Apprenticeships.

All that enduring power and influence brings great wealth. She lives in luxury, floating in and out of five grand houses as the ebb and flow of the seasons and the school year allow. Her jewelry is mostly old heirlooms and her wardrobe is strictly the newest couture. She makes every guest list that matters and her picture is splashed across the holonet. For she has the credits to upkeep a glamorously indulgent lifestyle and all the servants to make it look effortless.

But the excesses of her life don’t stop there. She is an acclaimed beauty and always has been. She has the desirable black hair, ruddy complexion, sharp cheekbones, and vaguely purple lips that give testament to how much pureblood Sith ancestry runs through her veins. That blood is especially rich in midichlorians. She has a very high count which, when combined with her personal attractiveness and family position, made her a very desirable marriage candidate. She was ten when the first Lord approached her father for a betrothal. 

Yes, she has it all. Every woman in the Empire longs to be her. Except, of course, for herself. And that’s why today she’s throwing it all away. 

This is not an act of grief. It’s not raging postpartum hormones. It’s not desperation. Well . . . maybe it’s all of those things in part. But mostly, it is because she is at a breaking point. This moment has crept up over years, fueled by dread and resentment. Probably, no one ever noticed because she plastered a bright smile over deep misgivings and put a brave face on whenever the topic came up. Women do that. They say they’re fine. They tell themselves and others that they’re fine. But they’re not fine. They just look fine . . . until they’re not. 

She has arrived now at a place of no return. Suddenly, the unthinkable seems possible because she rejects all other options. So here she is, betraying everything her family stands for. Does anyone suspect? She hopes not.

When the Palace emissary had arrived with the bad news, he offered them an extra day’s grace period in recognition that this is their third—THIRD!—such loss. This time, the chief priest of the Palace Temple had come in person sent by the Emperor for the occasion. It was surely a sign of great favor. But as her husband stood at her side gripping her hand tightly and blinking back tears, she herself had been strangely unmoved. She’s forty now and this is probably her last chance for a son. So as the priest had spoken consoling words about the Force, she had tuned him out and resolved to take action. 

And that’s why she finds herself here now. “Vis mecum.” _Force be with me_. She prays the most basic prayer she knows for courage, even though it is the damned Force that got her into this predicament. She used to be proud of her talent, thinking it a great blessing. But now, she knows it to be a curse. Better to be a Force-blind servant in the lowliest of Lord’s house on some backwater colonial world than to be the much admired and publicly lauded Fulvia Pulchra, Lady Collapse, of the famed Gens Claudius.

What’s that flashing? It’s the proximity alarm. She grabs the stick and the hypersensitive controls of her husband’s starfighter respond too fast. The craft careens hard to port. It’s an overcorrection. She narrowly avoids the threatening collision but almost causes another. For perhaps the thousandth time in the last three days, she wishes she were a more experienced pilot. She knows just enough to take off and land and jump to hyperspace. It’s not enough to prepare her for the mid-morning traffic congestion of the Republic’s capital world Coruscant. 

It would help if she knew where she is going. But none of her navigational equipment works. It was not programmed with this world in mind. Trusting the Force to guide her, she recognizes the landmark she seeks from the sky. The enormous blazing Light Side Force imprint from the concentration of Jedi assaults her mind. Yes, that has to be the place. She sets her stolen craft down fast in the large public plaza adjacent to her destination. 

No one is anticipating spacecraft parking here. She sends pedestrians running in all directions, several shouting and pointing. Unfortunately, the landing isn’t pretty. But she has arrived safely and so far, there are no signs that she was followed. Still, she has a nagging feeling in the back of her brain that signals danger. It has her alert with adrenaline pumping. 

She dips her head now to kiss the baby snuggled against her chest. He has that intoxicating newborn smell that soothes her fears and bolsters her determination. I’m doing this for you, she thinks with maternal instinct in overdrive. Truthfully, this recklessness is terrifying and it flies in the face of everything she was raised to be. But as keen as her fear is now, her resolve exceeds it. She will save this third baby boy or die trying. And then, she will return home to face the wrath of her family and her Emperor. “Numquam dubita.” _Never falter_. She encourages herself in the famous words of a long dead Sith general.

As she exits, a small crowd gathers to gawk at her sleek, black-on-red craft. The small fighter is heavily armed and thickly shielded. To her eye, it’s obviously military. But no one here has ever seen such styling. They don’t recognize the insignia on the side. Nor do they recognize the menacing Kittat motto painted beneath it: Pacis mendacium est. _Peace is a lie_. They do seem to recognize that the woman in the black dress with the baby clutched to her chest is not where she belongs.

Glancing around, Fulvia thinks the Republic looks even stranger on the ground than it did from the air. It’s so random looking. The Empire has a certain uniformity in design and architecture. The Sith like sharp contrast, whether it is expressed in angled, geometric patterns, in the preference for stone and steel construction materials, or the prevailing red, black, and silver color palette. Frankly, the Empire can be somewhat matchy-matchy looking as a result. Still, it’s fitting because the Sith prize unity and conformity. That rigorous esprit d’corps is what enabled them to rebuild their society after a crushing defeat.

The Republic has none of that familiar aesthetic. Nothing appears like it is the result of a preconceived master plan. It’s a jarring cacophony for her eyes. The people look very diverse as well. Some are gross aliens. Look at that ugly fish man with gills. But most are humanoid looking to varying degrees. She squints at one, trying to ascertain whether they are man or woman. The shape looks like a human woman, except the person is wearing pants. It confuses her. No self-respecting woman of the Empire—be they a Lady or the common folk—wears pants in public. Gender roles in the Empire are rather rigid.

Some sort of security type in an official looking uniform approaches her as she re-bundles the squirming infant. He starts out respectfully. “You have some trouble with your ship, ma’am?”

Yes, she has trouble. She has lots and lots of trouble. But she ignores the question and heads fast across the plaza to the steps leading up to the heretics’ temple.

“Hey!” the man calls after her. “You there! You can’t just leave this ship here! This is a no parking zone!”

She ignores him like she would ignore any underling back home who might dare take that tone with her. Fulvia keeps walking purposely. 

“Stop! I want to see some identification!” the man huffs.

She doesn’t have time for this. She keeps walking.

The man begins to give chase, calling loudly, “Stop! I want to see your identification!”

Clearly, he will not be deterred. She halts now and turns. Fulvia summons her power and waves a hand. “You don’t need to see my identification,” she intones.

The man stops and repeats her words softly, accepting the Force command. “I don’t need to see your identification.”

Good. He’s weak-minded. She continues, “Tell these people they can go about their business.” 

The man turns to tell the small assembly behind him, “You can go about your business.”

When the crowd fails to move, she further suggests, “Move along.”

The security guard now waves away the milling bystanders, loudly instructing, “Move along. I’ll handle this.”

Satisfied, Fulvia turns and heads as quickly as she can towards the looming Jedi edifice. Now that she’s actually here, she’s second guessing herself. She’s never met a Jedi before. No one alive has. What will they be like? Will they kill her on sight? Will they refuse her request? Will they judge any surviving Sith to be an existential threat? These mysterious Light Siders had better live up to their hype about compassion and forgiveness. Because if they still hold a grudge for the war their ancestors fought hundreds of years ago, her hope is in vain. 

Up close, the Coruscant Jedi temple is a thick, squat building with somewhat incongruous tall spires. All four sides have flights of stairs leading up to the main entrance level. It must be full of Jedi because her mind’s eye is buffeted by the strong concentration of Light. It feels a bit like staring into the sun, blinding and painful but also dazzling and powerful. Do these people sense her Darkness like she senses their Light? She wonders what she feels like in the Force to a Jedi. 

  
It’s midday and there are people everywhere. Most are wearing some version of a brown cloak over beige robes or a beige tunic. This must be Jedi attire, she surmises, as she consistently spots the lightsaber accessory that accompanies the uniform. But thankfully, the general public is here as well. She slides into a group of visitors who are part of a docent led tour. In that guise, she is able to slip inside the Jedi’s most sacred space. Actually, it feels very Sith to approach by deception. Is she the first of her kind ever to enter these hallowed halls? Maybe. 

The interior of the temple is much more attractive than the exterior, with colonnaded galleries and beautiful artwork. She gawks at it all, like the other tourists. The docent is very informative, describing the Jedi way of life as he walks them by the entrance to some ancient archives. Then, he starts talking about the Jedi High Council. These are the highest-ranking Jedi Masters who govern the Light Side cult and advise the Republic Senate. They are meeting here today right now, the docent reveals as he gestures to a set of closed doors flanked by security guards in an area that is roped off from the general public. 

This is her chance to get to the decision-makers. Fulvia seizes the moment. 

While the tour group moves on, she takes a deep breath, summons the Force, and walks around the velvet ropes. As the guards flanking the doors react, she waves her free hand and gives them a heavy dose of suggestion. “You did not see me,” she whispers as she opens the doors with the Force.

And just like that, a Sith refugee woman with a baby marches into the Jedi High Council. 

At her approach, the council members cease speaking. Heads swing her direction. Curious eyes are on her. Do they know who she is? Do they sense her Dark Force? Or are they merely upset to be interrupted by an uninvited guest? It’s clear from their expressions that she is not welcome.

As she stands there staring at the circle of twelve seated Jedi Masters, the door she just walked through opens. Someone commands, “Guards, remove this interloper. Redirect her to where she seeks to be.”

“No--wait! Hear me out!” Fulvia objects. “I need your help!” 

The speaker is annoyed but polite. “Guards, please intercept this woman. Escort her to security to explain herself. Perhaps they can see to her needs there.”

She has not come this far to be turned away without being heard. Fulvia immediately freezes the two guards who enter and head towards her. It’s an easy trick that requires a brief moment of concentration. As the guards stand paralyzed mid stride, she pushes them outside the chamber. Then she slides the door closed with the Force and locks it with a time-honored Dark charm for privacy. Good luck to anyone who tries to open that invisible lock. 

Fulvia turns back to the circle of Jedi. Who makes the decisions here? They’re all sitting in a circle. No one’s on a throne. She doesn’t know where to look or who to address.

“You have our attention,” a new voice speaks up dryly. 

She nods and swallows hard. Then she walks into the center of the circle to state her case. “My Lords.” Turning around she sees women too. She awkwardly amends, “My Ladies as well . . . I suppose . . .” It’s a little shocking to see women here among the Jedi leadership. There has never been a woman on the Dark Council. Sith Ladies as a rule do not participate in public life. But this is the Republic where they have all sorts of crazy ideas. 

“There are no Lords and Ladies here,” an old man speaks up. “We are equals with one another and with all citizens of the Republic. Now then, who are you and where have you come from? You have interrupted important proceedings.”

She shifts her fussy baby to her shoulder as she pats him. The poor little thing is so upset. As a Force sensitive child, no doubt he senses the conflict brewing. Fulvia has to speak loudly to be heard over his mewing cries.

She begins with the formal introduction befitting her status. “I am Fulvia Pulchra, Lady Collapse. I am Sister to Lord Ruin and Lord Venom, Daughter of Lord Faminer, and Granddaughter to Lord Berate and Lord Starve.” It’s an extremely impressive pedigree of notable Lords whose five generation midichlorian count averages over fifteen thousand. It puts her family at the apex of the Sith elite. But it means nothing to her audience. The Jedi Council members peer at her curiously. Some with clear annoyance and others with open skepticism.

“Perhaps you are in the wrong place? This is the High Council of the Jedi Order.”

“Yes, I know,” she answers, again shuffling the upset baby. His unease isn’t helping her keep her own composure. “My son and I are fugitives. I seek sanctuary for my child. Have mercy on him please—here!”

She boldly rushes forward to thrust her precious bundle into the arms of the nearest human woman. She doesn’t trust him to one of those alien types. For all she knows, they might eat him. But for her part, the Jedi lady looks taken aback she awkwardly clutches the child like she’s never held a baby before.

“Support his head!” Fulvia hisses censure at the fumbling woman. “He’s three days old. Yes, like that.”

Satisfied that her son is appropriately cradled, Fulvia steps back to face the circle of Jedi Masters.

“This child has the Force?”

“Yes. They will kill him if they find him. He has too much Force. His midichlorian count is eighteen thousand.”

“Eighteen thousand??” someone reacts.

She nods. “Eighteen thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two.” Fulvia lifts her chin proudly. “The Force is strong in my family. I have it, his father has it, we all have it.”

“Who is ‘they’? Who wants to kill the child?” a freakish looking alien asks.

“In the Empire, boy infants born with too much Force are surrendered to the Emperor. He kills them because he fears their potential. The only thing Lord Vitiate fears is losing his power,” she adds bitterly.

“What Empire?” the alien Jedi demands.

“The Sith Empire.”

Many among the circle of twelve exchange glances.

But the alien is the one to object. “There is no Sith Empire. It was defeated a thousand years ago.”

“Yes. You destroyed us. But still, we persist. Darkness never dies,” she quotes a maxim of her religion. “Darkness, like the Empire, persists.”

The alien leans forward in his chair. “Are you saying there is a hidden Sith Empire?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I believe we exist in what your people call the Unidentified Regions.”

“Do you mean the Unknown Regions?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“And you are Sith?”

“Yes.”

“Those are incredible claims,” another man observes, crossing his arms over his chest. “We are to believe that you use the Dark Side of the Force?”

“Yes.” Weren’t they watching just now? Do they need another demonstration? Should she choke someone?

“So you are the enemy,” yet another voice enters to the discussion.

“Yes.” She fully admits, “I will die for what I have done and what I have told you. My husband may die as well for failing to stop me.”

“And yet you did it anyway?”

“Yes. I want this boy to live. I have lost two children already to Vitiate’s paranoia. I will not lose another!”

The words come out shrill. She’s very stressed. All the practiced hauteur and cold poise of a grand Sith Lady falls aside now. For she has come to the inner sanctum of her enemy to beg for mercy for her child. She is an apostate and a traitor at this point. There will be no redemption for her. She will be infamous if her actions are discovered.

Once she had been a good citizen, even going so far as to write condolence notes to other Ladies who sacrificed baby sons, expressing her empathy with their plight and urging them to trust the wisdom of the Emperor. But her days of going along with the rigid rules of elite Sith society are over. She will no longer gracefully acquiesce to the ritual murder of her innocent male children, no matter what her husband, father, and male relatives threaten. They get all the glory in the Empire anyway. And what does she get? Four daughters full of Force who like her are allowed to live. She worries that someday they too will surrender a newborn son born with too much Force for the craven Emperor to kill. That they will live her life all over again as cosseted and admired wives but serially bereft mothers. She may not be able to prevent that outcome, but she can prevent this latest son’s death. And by doing so, she ensures that she won’t live to see her grandsons die like her sons did. 

“Raise my son in the Light,” she pleads. “Teach him anything you want. I don’t care his creed or his allegiance. I only care that he survives!”

“Why should we help our enemy?” someone asks a very logical question in an objective, thoughtful tone. These Jedi have a preternatural calm that she, as a passionate Sith, finds bewildering. But perhaps that’s understandable in the circumstances. Unlike herself, these people have no personal interest in the situation.

Heads nod around the circle and another voice poses the same question. “If what you claim is true, then tell us why should we help our enemy?”

“Because you’re supposed to be better than us, aren’t you? The Light is kind and merciful, right? Accepting and compassionate? Prove it!” she challenges. “Have mercy on your enemy.” 

She’s growing agitated now and her voice is sharp. Truthfully, she’s not accustomed to persuading anyone. Debate and discussion are not common where she’s from. In the Empire, there is a rigid chain of command to all aspects of life. She commands and in return she is commanded. But that posture will not win her these Jedi’s favor, she sees.

“Who is this Vitiate?” another alien Jedi Master asks.

“Darth Vitiate is our longtime leader,” she answers, her voice dripping with disdain. “He’s an entrenched recluse. No one sees him, no one knows him, and yet everyone fears him because he controls everything. Vitiate fears little children strong with the Force who might one day grow to supplant him. He kills the boys at birth to ensure he will have no rivals.” 

Fulvia shakes her head in reproof, wondering aloud, “Why does the Force allow that coward to remain in power? The Shadow Force is greater than any one man, it has more than a single champion. So why does the Force permit Emperor Vitiate to keep a stranglehold on our leadership? He’s been in power since our defeat at your hands . . .”

“But that was a thousand years ago,” someone again protests the timeline.

“Vitiate is ancient. Some say he is immortal. But who knows? There are lots of rumors about him. I’m sure that’s deliberate,” she gripes bitterly. 

She pauses now, blinking to clear her mind. Her pulse quickens as her senses heighten. “Someone’s here . . .” Suddenly, amid all the distracting Light, she senses someone or something familiar in the Force. This must be the danger that pricked at her when she first landed. Her instinct was right—she has been followed. 

It brings a new urgency to her persuasion. 

“Please protect my child,” she begs, arms outstretched as she turns around to meet the Jedi Council members’ eyes one by one. “He is born Sith, but he is not your enemy! There is much that separates our cultures, but he has learned none of it yet,” she assures them. “Teach him your ways and rear him as one of you. Who knows? Maybe someday he will be the bridge to reconcile our two traditions . . . ” She is babbling now, telling these people what she hopes they want to hear. “May he become a great peacemaker, rich in the Force and rich in wisdom.”

She pauses to involuntarily glance back over her shoulder. Whoever is coming, they are getting closer. The Jedi clearly sense it as well. Several shift in their seats. She notices one reach for his weapon.

“I commend him to your care and trust in your goodness,” she rambles on nervously wringing her hands as she humbles herself completely. “Please, I’m begging you, please safeguard this innocent—“

She stops. Because oh, Force, they’re here! Whoever has come is here! Right outside the door. So close now . . . so threatening . . . 

The Jedi feel it, too. “Alert the guards,” someone speaks up into a comlink.

But it’s too late for guards, Fulvia knows. The Dark Force swirls around her unseen but powerful. Whoever has come, they have come to kill. Danger is screaming out at her.

Two of the Jedi now shoot to their feet. One reaches for his sword hilt but does not light it. “More intruders,” he warns the others. “Three?”

“Four,” the other standing Jedi corrects him.

“They followed me!” she yelps. “Help me! Defend me!”

But the wary Jedi are noncommittal. They don’t trust her and she has now brought more of her kind to their doorstep. Do they fear to take sides? Or do they view all Sith as suspect? Having the Sith kill the Sith might be a victory in their minds, she realizes. But whatever their reasoning, the Jedi are very cool in their lack of response.

Determined to resist, she summons the Force and throws up her left hand. Squinting, she concentrates hard to reinforce the invisible lock she created earlier. For on the other side, someone is attempting to undue her spell.

It’s a battle of wills for a few seconds and she wins. Whoever is at the door gives up attempting to break in with the Force. Instead, he simply cuts a large rectangular shape through the barrier with the tip of a lightsaber. Her pursuer kicks hard and the cut metal falls into the room with a resounding thump. 

A masked man in red armor immediately ducks through the improvised entryway. It’s a praetorian. One of the Emperor’s personal bodyguards.

She gulps.

Praetorians are the best warriors of the Empire, predators strong in the Force with skills honed from years of training in hand-to-hand combat. These Lords don’t command armies or fleets, and they don’t have the organizational and analytical skills to run the Empire’s economy. Neither do they have the training to administer the bureaucracy or the law courts. They also lack the technical expertise needed to tease out the secrets of Darkness in temples or in weapons laboratories. As a rule, praetorians are not multi-disciplinary or cerebral types. For they are the brawn, not the brains, of the upper class. They have one purpose only: to kill those foolish enough to threaten Lord Vitiate.

Fulvia backs up and gulps again. 

“Traitor!” the praetorian accuses, his crimson saber pointing right at her. It’s a label she never imagined would ever fit. But now, it’s true. She doesn’t even bother with a denial.

Instead, she throws out a hand and the lightsaber hanging at the waist of the nearest Jedi flies into it. The weapon ignites a strange brilliant blue. It feels awkward in her hand, but it’s just what she needs to block the incoming swing from her charging attacker. As she parries, she throws the praetorian back hard with the Force. He hits the wall with a thud and bounces off. His armor must have absorbed the brunt of the impact, she realizes, as he quickly regroups.

She can almost sense the smirk behind the man’s red mask. “You don’t know how to use that sword,” he condescends. 

She begs to differ. “I have two brothers. I have swung a sword. And I--” she executes a swooping swing that again sends her pursuer falling back, “I had the most Force!” In fact, she’s only alive because she is female. Because in the Empire, a Force-strong woman is nothing to be feared. Well, today she’s going to prove that conventional wisdom wrong. 

“You are not fit to call yourself a Lady!” the man sneers as he again engages. “For shame!”

“I’m not a Lady,” she retorts with a stabbing lunge. “I’m a mother!” It’s the only title she has left and she will wear it like a badge of honor.

She makes a vicious swipe at the praetorian’s feet that he leaps to avoid. But before he regains his footing, she Force pushes him again hard into the wall. Then for good measure, she blasts him with some improvised Force lightning. She’s no expert swordsman, but with the help of the Force she hopes to hold her own. And she’s not fighting for herself, so much as she is fighting for her newborn son. 

She sneaks a glance behind her at the circle of passive Light Siders. How can the Jedi sit by and merely watch? Do they not get involved in disputes? Can they not see that this is no tournament, this is mortal combat?

There will be no help from them, she decides. So she concentrates hard and blocks out all but her attacker. “Vis mecum,” she mutters. _Force be with me._ She’s come this far, so she must have the shadow power’s blessing. Attempting to control her fear, Fulvia now gives full vent to her desperation. Darkness consumes her in a fit of rageful passion. The Force flows through her, amplifying her meager abilities. It makes her stronger, faster, and better. Suddenly, sword fighting becomes easy.

“Aaaah!” the praetorian falls back as she nearly takes his arm off when they engage again. “You do know how to use a sword,” he grumbles begrudgingly.

His genuine surprise grates. Who does this guy think practiced with her brothers and cousins every day after school before they began their Apprenticeships? Sure, she hasn’t picked up a sword in many years, but she’s watched any number of tournaments in the interim. And while she might be only a few days from childbirth, she’s still residually fit. You don’t keep your figure this trim through seven pregnancies without a lot of cardio. 

Her attacker makes a quick riposte that she deflects effortlessly. Then she starts in on a series of slashing swings, driving the praetorian back. He’s on the defensive, losing ground fast, when she freezes him with the Force and makes a clean swipe at his neck.

The kill is not a moment too soon, for through the ruined door charge two more praetorians with seven-foot Force pikes. But that’s not all. Behind them is her husband.

Fulvia panics. She has not anticipated this.

But her reflexive terror is very useful. Channeling it into Darkness instinctively, she fists her left hand and the Force constricts the praetorians’ hearts in their chests, crushing them instantly. It’s so effortless that she only realizes after the fact what she has done. For all of that impressive scarlet armor is nothing when measured against the power of her Force. The two incoming praetorians slump to the ground, slain by her mind. Their weaponry sparks as it falls and extinguishes harmlessly.

That just leaves her facing wide eyed Tiberius. He looks to her, to the three bodies on the floor, and then back to her.

Fulvia lowers her borrowed sword. For the first time, she is uncertain.

Her handsome mate facing her is her male equivalent, her peer in every way. For Lord and Lady Collapse are well matched. They are the elite of the elite, young leaders amid the beautiful people of the Empire. Her parents chose well, for together they represent the zenith of the Sith gene pool. In fact, that’s why they find themselves in this unhappy predicament. 

She looks a wreck right now. She’s sweating and disheveled, exhausted and still swollen from childbirth. Wearing the only non-maternity dress that fits with not even a swipe of makeup on. But Tiberius looks magnificent. He is the picture of a dashing young Lord just entering his prime. He’s even wearing his costly ceremonial armor, she notices, which tells her he must have come directly from an audience at the Palace. 

“Fulvi.” He calls her by the pet name her whole family calls her. He reaches out a forestalling hand and makes a soft command. “Fulvi, turn off the sword.” As a gesture of goodwill, her turns off his own saber. Seeing this, she complies.

“They sent you . . . you . . .??” she stammers. She’s dismayed. Maybe she should have seen this coming, but she did not.

Tiberius nods and answers gravely. “Yes.”

“W-Why?”

“Because if I bring you back, he will only kill us. But if I do not return, your brothers, their sons, and your father will be proscribed. They are already hostage in the Palace.”

“And the b-baby?” she whispers.

“I will be quick. It will be painless, I promise—”

“NO!”

Her husband’s face shows all of his torment and frustration. Through the Force, she can sense his anger and sadness. “Fulvi, nothing can save him now . . . or us . . . Best to stop thinking of yourself.”

Thinking of herself? Nothing about this has been motivated by her own interests. “NO!” she roars again. “Tiberius, if you harm him, I will kill you—”

“Fulvi, he won’t live. If I don’t kill him, the next guy Vitiate sends will do it. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Not if they can’t find us---let’s hide—let’s stay here in the Republic!” she improvises. Immediately, she warms to the idea and exhorts, “We can run away and raise him where no one can find us—we can defect—become Jedi--”

“Fulvi,” Tiberius shakes his head sadly, “Do you even hear yourself?” he wonders with disgust. “I knew you would be upset—I was too! But I never dreamed you would do this.” Her husband runs a hand down his face and sighs heavily. “You flee to our enemy, you betray your family and the Empire, you condemn us all for your folly! Where is your honor? Where is your decency? No one ever dreamed that you of all people would pull this stunt! How you disappoint me . . . you were always such an exemplary wife . . .”

She steps back and shakes her head in warning. “Tiberius, if you harm him, I will—”

“I will do what I must!” he shouts her down indignantly. “I will do what YOU should have done! I will obey the Master of all Masters! He is our Emperor!” Tiberius steps closer now and gets in her face. “Fulvi, I’m not asking you. I’m telling you as your husband, Lord, and Master.” He visibly swallows now before he orders softly, “Kneel, Lady Collapse, and submit to my justice as emissary from His Excellency, Darth Vitiate.”

She stumbles back as his true mission dawns on her. Tiberius isn’t here to bring her home for a reckoning. He’s here to kill her and the baby. “Y-You’re going to kill me? They s-sent you to k-kill me??”

He nods. “I will do what I must.” He looks down and away, clearly miserable at the task. He mutters, “This will redeem our family’s honor. If I return with you and our child—”

“Dead!”

“Yes! Then only I will be proscribed. The rest of us will live despite the stain you have placed on our family.”

She knows Tiberius well enough to know that he’s decided. There will be no talking him out of this course of action. And, honestly, she can’t fault him. He’s a good man, truly. A respectful and caring husband and father. But like all Lords of the Empire, he is beholden first to his Emperor.

“And these Jedi?” she gestures to their maddeningly silent audience. The Jedi who were standing earlier have since retaken their seats. The Light Side knights are collectively watching things unfold like this is a holonet serial drama and not real life in which they have a role to play and decisions to make. 

She announces, “They know the Empire exists. I told them!”

“They already knew.”

She blinks. “What do you mean??”

“Didn’t they tell you? They know. Vitiate knows they know. The stronger we grow, the greater they sense us. Besides, we have too many common trading partners. The Empire could not remain hidden forever.”

“Then why aren’t we at war? Why don’t we attack?” she challenges.

“No one wants war.”

Wait—what?? “Of course, we want war!”

Tiberius is firm. “No one wants war, Fulvi. Least of all Vitiate.”

“Oh.” She whirls. “Is that true?” she addresses the circle of Jedi.

Heads nod. Someone answers, “We have long suspected that the Sith persisted. Today, you have confirmed our fears.”

“But the Empire is in hiding planning an attack,” she protests weakly. “We’ve been in hiding a thousand years preparing for war . . . “

“You just think that. Vitiate wants you to think that. He prepares us for a war we will never fight.” 

“W-Why?” she squints at Tiberius, feeling confused. Because the revenge of the Sith on the Republic is the purpose of the Empire . . . right? “Why?”

“Because things are fine the way they are. We flourish in our sectors, they flourish in theirs.”

Tiberius steps forward now into the circle of Jedi. “This woman and that child are mine. I am entrusted with their lives by every custom and law of my people.” He approaches the Jedi woman holding the baby. “Yield him to me. I will deal with them and leave. You will never see me again nor any other Sith Lord. We will leave the Republic in peace. You have my word of honor on behalf of Emperor Vitiate. He has no quarrel with the Republic.”

That is a lie. Peace is a lie. But the Jedi don’t know that. Incredibly, they believe him. Fulvia is dumbfounded at their gullibility.

The Jedi woman holding the baby looks questioningly around the circle. Again, heads nod their endorsement. So, she somewhat reluctantly surrenders the baby to his father.

Tiberius brings the boy back to her. “Hold him and kneel,” her husband instructs. “It will be quick and clean for both of you, I promise.”

Dismayed at this turn of events, Fulvia turns for one last appeal to the Jedi Council. “But—”

“Take him!” Tiberius commands sharply. “Hold him and comfort him. He is innocent, even if you are not. But I will show you mercy in honor of our many happy years together. Fulvi, I love you even if I hate what you have done.” He shoots her a hard, Dark look full of resentment. His words are biting. “I hate that you have made me do this.”

“O-Oh . . .” Trembling, she accepts her little son back into her arms, holding him tightly against her chest.

“Go on,” Tiberius prods gruffly. “On your knees, wife. You will atone with your life. Ecce invenit honorem.” _Behold--this act finds honor_. They are ancient words for a ritual execution to cleanse shame from a family besmirched by a woman.

She nods and pretends, lowering her eyes and her body into a crouch of submission she learned young from her mother. She taught her own daughters to kneel as well. But now, she rejects the social control of the Sith patriarchy that murders her children and tells her to accept it. She subverted it with her wild dash to the enemy. She will subvert it yet again. For her goal remains what it has been all along: to save her baby son or die trying. And since both she and Tiberius are both going to die anyway, she might as well fight back. For what difference does it make in the end how they die? Fulvia might be cornered and caught, but she isn’t giving up yet.

Tiberius speaks with a composed chill, but she can see that he is rattled . . . very rattled. He’s quietly distraught at his task. He may hold the executioner’s sword, but in his own way, her husband is as much a victim as she is. His hesitation is the distraction she needs. For as he psyches himself up for an old-fashioned honor killing, Fulvia lights the borrowed Jedi sword she’s still somehow holding in her left hand. She lunges. 

“AAAAHHHH!” Tiberius gasps out as she pierces his body through cleanly at the waist. Is it a mortal wound? She doesn’t wait to find out. Instead she drops her weapon and runs to shove the baby back into the arms of the Jedi woman.

“Run! Save him!” she pleads, her heart pounding. “RUN!”

From behind, she hears the sound of a sword igniting. Whirling, she sees Tiberius stumble forward. He might be clutching his wound, but he’s not giving up either. He’s swinging now and she falls back. Her cast off sword flies back into her grip. It ignites and she starts to return blows. 

“RUN!” she hollers at the still seated Jedi woman holding their baby. “RUN NOW! SAVE HIM!”

“There will be no victory for either of us,” Tiberius groans as he pants through the pain. “You cannot win.”

Fulvia glances back at their helpless baby in the enemy woman’s arms. “I already have,” she decides. Saving their son counts as a win. It’s what she wanted all along. She’s just sorry, so very sorry, that the cost for the boy’s life is so high. 

Like her fight with the praetorian, this battle is brief and uninterrupted by any Jedi. Wounded Tiberius is slowing rapidly but she is a very reluctant opponent. She doesn’t blame her husband. He’s as trapped in this situation as she is. The villain here is Vitiate who sends a husband and father to do his dirty work for him. The vainglorious Emperor counts on the loyalty and honor of his Lords to do his bidding, but he has the added leverage of hostages. It means he wins . . . in the end, he always wins. There isn’t anyone in the Empire who Vitiate doesn’t control. All her family’s wealth, power, and influence are but an illusion. For she might as well be a servant for all the benefit her exalted status gives her now.

She’s crying and the tears obscure her vision. They also blur her concentration. She needs to end this fight fast before her husband’s far superior sword skills fell her despite his wounded condition. She waits for her opening through three more sword passes. But there it is—he’s moving slow, so he’s exposed on the right side while she slashes. Her blue sword tip carves a neat diagonal across the torso of Tiberius’ armor. A very deep, long wound arises from his waist on the right to his chest on the left. It’s the sweet spot for a kill, covering multiple major organs. 

It is only as she watches him crumble that Fulvia realizes she is not the only one to strike true. For distracted by her Dark zeal for the kill, she herself has been slain. Her husband’s sword has stuck true. She is stabbed clean through at the waist. His falling motion jerks the sword upwards while still in her, cutting towards her chest. Then, the blade falls free as his dropped sword deactivates, bounces, and rolls away. 

Fulvia feels weakness before she feels pain. Her legs seem to give out beneath her. Suddenly, she’s on her back blinking up at the ceiling, stunned and dismayed. Turning her head, she sees Tiberius laying close. He’s dying fast. She feels it in the Force. 

She hears voices now. The baby is crying loudly again. Suddenly, the Jedi woman holding the boy looms into view above her. “We will save your son. We will keep him safe,” the woman rushes to tell her. It’s everything ailing Fulvia needs to hear. It makes it all worth it.

“Thank you . . .” she manages through trembling lips. “His name . . . i-is . . . Rev-en-i-o . . .” she gasps out. It’s an old Kittat verb _Revenio, revenire_ meaning to come back, to return. Normally, her son would be named with a Kittat praenomen like other Sith aristocrats. He would be a Titus, Gaius, Cassius or the like. But she deviates from custom in hopes that her son will one day return safely to his homeland. She knows that’s impossible—it could get him killed. But still, she hopes. 

Her last thought is a fervent Dark prayer to the Force: vindica me. _Avenge me!_ One day, return my son to the Sith, she wishes. Send him to avenge his father, his dead brothers, and myself. May he kill Emperor Vitiate and steal his beloved Empire. May he fulfill our craven Dark Lord’s worst fears and seize the power he kills so many to protect. Vindica me.

Unfortunately, the hovering Jedi woman has trouble hearing her last words. It’s her fading voice combined with her Sith inflected Basic that sounds thickly accented to her unfamiliar Republic ears. Later, when the little orphan infant is accepted into the Jedi Order, he will be called by a single name that is the best anyone understood and remembers: Revan. And one day, fulfilling his dying mother’s wish, he will assume the title that unbeknownst to him is his birthright: Darth Revan, Lord of the Sith. He will be everything Emperor Vitiate ever feared come to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while now, my imagination has been stuck in the Ye Olde Sith Empire era of Star Wars. I’m enamored with the strict hierarchy and social roles, the stark aesthetics and creepy customs, the competitive zeal for power and the collective desire for vengeance. Sitting atop it all is the hot mess of Darkness, Dark Lord Vitiate. He’s the self-trained colonial usurper, reclusive, insecure, and paranoid. And, importantly for the conflict of this story, he is the King Herod of Star Wars. A man who murders any would-be rivals in infancy to keep a stranglehold on power. 
> 
> In fact, the scenario of a Sith mother fleeing to hide her Force strong infant son with the Jedi was an ending I flirted with to conclude Taking the Veil. I wanted to show Vitiate’s worst fears coming to fruition. Who is the most terrifying threat to his power? His own baby son who inherits his Force. And what does Vitiate fear most? The Republic and the Jedi that destroyed the Sith Empire once before and paved the way for Vitiate’s own rise to power. Ultimately, I chose to end the story differently. I just couldn't get comfortable that conservative, patriotic Lady Struct would ever flee to the Republic. But the idea of a desperate mother betraying everything to save her son stuck with me. I really wanted to write the scene. 
> 
> For those not up on their Legends canon, Darth Revan and Darth Vitiate will ultimately have quite a Force bromance as weird frenemy/enemies/rivals. But Revan is a bad fit with the Jedi Order. He’s the iconoclast who thinks that Dark means can serve the Light Side but --oops!--he falls to the Dark Side in the process. Jedi Revan defies the Jedi Order’s desire to avoid intervening in disputes (contrast that with the late Republic Jedi Order that never saw a dispute they did not intervene in). Some of that do-nothing Jedi ‘sit on the sidelines’ ethos of the time period appears in this story when the council members sit and watch Fulvia struggle and fight. It gets her killed. That same mindset will frustrate grown Jedi Revan to no end when the Mandalorians invade the Republic as pawns/proxies for the Sith. Revan becomes a charismatic renegade who blows off the Jedi High Council and plays politics with the Senate when he gathers an army of followers and basically does what he wants.
> 
> Next up, Shmi Skywalker.


	3. Chapter 3  The Annunciation to the Non-Blessed Non-Virgin

_Circa 42BBY, Old Republic Era_

_Tatooine System, the Galactic Republic_

“Face it, Shmi, you’re pregnant.”

She grabs for the discarded test stick to inspect the latest results for herself. “That’s not possible,” she breathes out her stubborn disbelief even as she stares at the clearly positive reading.

Oma gives her a sympathetic look. “It’s always possible even with precautions . . . you know that . . . nothing is foolproof . . . ”

Maybe so, but not in this case. “It’s not possible!”

“That was the third positive test,” her friend points out. “But if you want to get a fancy scan, there’s a free clinic in Mos Espa.” Oma’s face softens now as she perceives her distress. “Ah, don’t cry. I’ll go with you--”

“It’s impossible!” she exclaims again, giving way to a rare bout of tears. Never in her wildest dreams would she have thought to find herself in this predicament. She has done her best to recall anything that might have resulted in pregnancy and come up with a blank. So unless someone drugged her and managed to hide it very well, there is no explanation.

“Shmi,” her friend begins tentatively, “this place can be rough, I know . . . especially on party nights. You probably wouldn’t be the first woman who was . . . uh . . . victimized . . .” Oma chooses her words carefully and refuses to meet her eyes.

But no, that’s not it. “It’s impossible!” she wails again, shaking her head in refusal to accept the truth. “Nothing happened!”

Oma doesn’t debate the point. She just urges, “Get a scan. That way, you’ll be sure. Then, you can make some decisions.”

“Decisions?” She looks across to her friend blankly.

The pretty Twi’lek lowers her voice to a whisper. “Shmi, they won’t let you keep it. They’ll sell you.”

She’s right. Shmi sniffs, but then wonders aloud, “Would that be so bad?”

“It might,” Oma warns. “Look, who’s going to buy a pregnant slave? The new owner won’t get much work out of you for months and they’ll know it. Plus, there will be medical costs and a baby to feed and clothe. Shmi, you might sell cheap and you know what that means . . .” 

Yes, she does. Slaves are bought cheap by owners who don’t plan on keeping them. By owners who are looking for disposable people to work dangerous jobs or to mistreat. By owners who don’t want to throw away good credits investing on droid labor when they can buy an inexpensive human instead. Shmi gulps hard. She feels her eyes well up yet again. 

“Ah, don’t cry . . . we’ll take care of it . . .”

“This must be a mistake! It has to be a mistake!” she wails.

“Look, we’ll go to the clinic this week. Tomorrow,” her friend suggests. “You can get a scan and then they will give you the shot and it will all be over in a few days. You’ll see . . . ”

She picks up the latest test again to squint at it. Then she does the same with the previous two tests. She shakes her head as she casts them aside. “I can’t believe this. It makes no sense.”

“Do you . . . uh . . . need to . . . uh . . . talk to someone first?” Oma ventures awkwardly.

“What??” She’s not following.

Her friend spells it out: “The father.”

“What father?”

“The baby’s father.”

“There is no father.”

Oma nods along. “It’s fine. Shmi, you don’t have to tell me—“

“There is no father.” That’s the confusing part.

“Oh. Okay.” Oma looks completely unconvinced. “Well, then . . . we can go tomorrow without delay,” she says a little too brightly. “We’ll get it taken care of and there will be nothing to worry about.”

Shmi looks her friend squarely in the eyes now. “Oma, there was no man.”

“Huh?”

“There is no father. I haven’t been with a man.”

“Then how is it possible—”

“I can’t explain it! I don’t understand it. But there is no father.” She hasn’t slept with anyone in over two years. Not since that spacer guy who ran spice to the Core stopped coming by the Palace. 

Oma looks like she wants to believe her, but doesn’t. She just nods and keeps trying to be supportive. “It’s okay. It’s not my business. But let me help you. Shmi, I want to help you.”

She nods and wipes at her eyes.

“Tomorrow morning, okay? I’m dancing the party tonight. Everyone will be hungover and no one will notice when we slip away. We’ll be there and back in two hours, I promise. Now, don’t cry. It will all be fine. In a few days, it will be like it never happened.”

“I hope you’re right,” Shmi whispers.

“Of course, I’m right. I’ve done it myself once. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay . . . “ She tries to be positive.

The next morning, Oma’s plan works perfectly. The Palace is quiet as all the powers-that-be sleep off the prior night’s excess. There’s no one to object when they commandeer one of the speeders for a run into town. Truthfully, Jabba’s overseer is a fairly lax taskmaster. Nothing at the Palace runs as efficiently as it should. That’s very typical of the Hutts.

The Mos Espa clinic confirms what the three cheap tests revealed: she is indeed pregnant.

Shmi peers at the scan results, looking at the blinking light that is the tiny heartbeat of her unwanted child. 

She’s a slave, so technically the baby is the property of her master. Consent is required by law to destroy that property. But this is Tatooine where laws and rules are bent regularly. And luckily, the sympathetic medic is understanding. He forges the requisite signature and a droid gives her a shot. The shot will stimulate her body to reject the child. The medic tells her she will cramp and bleed a bit over the course of a few days and then everything will go back to normal. 

“Well, that’s that,” Oma declares victory as she hustles her back to the speeder. And truthfully, Shmi would be lying if she said she weren’t enormously relieved. They make it back to the Palace undetected and no one is the wiser.

But later that day, she can’t seem to get her mind off the inexplicable surprise baby she has terminated. “Forgive me,” Shmi thinks as her hand involuntarily finds her flat stomach. She swallows the confusion and guilt she struggles to repress. She tells herself that she made the right decision. That she is ill prepared to be a single mother. She has no resources and few choices. What sort of life would that be for a child? She’s not a religious person, so she isn’t worried about eternal damnation from the Force or some other supreme being. But she is a good person and she doesn’t take these sorts of decisions lightly.

But surely, she of all people can be forgiven this act given the circumstances. If she were a free woman in a relationship with a good man and they had a stable life, then pregnancy news might be greeted with joy. But instead, she is a slave and if she birthed this child, they would be a slave too. Born into a life of degradation and bondage. No one wants that. So Shmi tells herself that shot was an act of mercy, not of convenience. It’s certainly not murder, like some people might accuse her of.

But she remains uneasy. Later that night when her work is done and she is alone in bed, Shmi is still restless. Her body is tired but her mind is wide awake. She just can’t get the riddle of her pregnancy out of her mind. How did it happen? Could it happen again? None of it makes sense. And so, while the problem is solved, she is still very troubled. She drifts and dozes while she obsesses. And that’s when she first hears the voice.

_Hail lady, full of grace._

She bolts upright in bed. “Is someone there?” She turns on the light expecting to see a man. But there’s no one there. It’s just her in the repurposed storage closet that she calls her bedroom. But to be certain, she kicks off her covers and checks the lock on the door. Satisfied that it is secure, she climbs back into bed and tries again to rest.

_Hail lady, full of grace. The Force is with you._

There it is again. “Who’s there?” she calls out.

_Do not be afraid. You have found favor with the Force._

“Who’s there??” There’s no one there, Shmi realizes. The voice is in her mind, not in her ears. She wipes at her eyes and settles back down. She must be dreaming. But still . . . that had sounded so real . . . like a man’s intimate, husky whisper. He had sounded pleased.

_Unto you, a child is given. He is the son of god, the king of kings, a prince of the Force, sent to rule the galaxy._

Yes, she is definitely dreaming. This must be the voice of her conscience bubbling up. Here is her self-recrimination manifesting itself in her unconscious mind. She’s guilty even though she has no reason to feel guilty. That guilt is pricking at her and keeping her awake.

Frustrated, she grabs her pillow and stuffs it over her head, trying to block out the sound she isn’t actually hearing. For how could she even be pregnant in the first place? She wasn’t with a man. There was no way she could have conceived. She tries again to sleep. There will be lots of work in the morning. 

Her determination to rest succeeds. The unseen, unheard voice is the last thing she remembers until she awakes in the morning. 

_All things are possible in the Force_. 

She runs into Oma at breakfast the next day. “Are you bleeding yet?” her friend whispers.

“Not yet,” she whispers back.

She doesn’t bleed at all that day. It’s a little worrisome. She tries to put it out of her mind, but when she is alone at night in bed, she stresses over it. Should she get another shot? What if it didn’t work? Maybe she was never even pregnant in the first place, she theorizes, and the scan was a mistake.

_Unto you, a child is given._

There’s that voice again. Angrily, Shmi speaks out loud into the darkened room. “There is no child! The child is dead! I killed it! I killed my own baby!” She killed her unwanted baby and she’s becoming a bit indignant about it. Because why should she feel guilty about making a good decision for herself?

_Take heart, dear lady. Let the Force give you strength. The Force will save the son of its handmaid_.

Irritated, she snarls, “Who are you? Are you the Force?” Is she talking to god?

There is no answer. Of course, there is no answer. There is no answer because there is no voice. She’s overtired and hallucinating. Too worried and stressed to think straight. Is this a dream or a nightmare? Maybe it’s both.

_The Force will protect the son of its handmaid._

“Go away!” she hisses. “Leave me alone!” She doesn’t want to hear any more about the baby she killed. She just wants to put the whole matter behind her and move on. Now, if she will just start bleeding, she will be sure.

But she doesn’t start bleeding the next day. Or the next day after that. When a full week passes, she and Oma head back to the Mos Espa clinic. Sometimes it takes a second shot, the kindly medic explains when a second scan again reveals a baby with a beating heart. Some of them just seem to want to hang on, he says with a shrug. Guess this one’s a fighter. The droid gives her another shot and the medic assures her all will be fine.

But all isn’t fine. The second shot doesn’t work. By the next week, Shmi is tired, nauseous, and bloated feeling. A few days later, she starts vomiting.

“You’re still pregnant,” Oma deduces what Shmi fears most. It’s a problem. A big problem. Because now it’s past time to take another shot. At this point, she will have to use a different means and it’s not free. As a slave, she has no credits of her own. She has to beg them from the overseer. That means she has to confess her predicament. 

The overseer listens to her tale. It’s clear he doesn’t believe her. Not her tale of a miraculous pregnancy nor her story of going twice to Mos Espa to take care of it. He doesn’t give her the credits for the procedure. Instead, he informs her that he had already decided to sell her. Let her new owner pay for the abortion, he shrugs. It’s not his problem anymore.

So Shmi stays pregnant and miserable until a month later she is sold by Jabba to his Hutt cousin Gardulla. Shmi moves from one Hutt palace on Tatooine to another. Not much about her life changes except she leaves behind her good friend and confidante Oma.

As she attempts to process the meaning of her plight, Shmi is angry. For what fresh indignity is this? She has so little control over anything in life. Not even her own body, it seems. It is so discouraging. She has been made to be accepting by her life circumstances. But still . . . this pregnancy is a lot to swallow. She alternates between seething anger and true terror. But no one around her is the wiser. She knows that no one likes a high-strung servant. So, she has learned to keep a placid veneer even when inside she is quaking or boiling. Best to look unobtrusive and be forgettable, even if your heart is breaking. 

Does the new overseer know she’s pregnant? Shmi isn’t certain. And it would be just like Jabba to cheat his cousin in a slave trade, to be honest. Should she speak up? She isn’t sure. By the time she works up the nerve to broach the topic with her new overseer, she’s nearly three months along.

This time, she omits the part about the miraculous conception. She just says she’s pregnant. The overseer surprises her when he doesn’t seem to care. He just tells her to get back to work. It’s not at all the reaction she expects. And now, she is very worried that she will need to carry this unwanted child to term. 

Upset, she cries herself to sleep that night. While muffling her sobs, she tries to ignore the voice she has heard intermittently most nights for months now. The voice always tells her the same things. That she has been chosen by the Force to bear a son. That the Force will protect her. That she should trust in the Force. It’s a lot of ridiculous sentiment in solemn, archaic sounding language. Is it meant to comfort her? Because if so, it’s not working. But somehow, as her pregnancy persists and progresses, the voice becomes stronger.

“Go away,” she grumbles as she turns over and tries to block out the voice. But tonight, it seems he has something new to say.

_What is your name? Help me to help you_.

“Go away.”

_Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you._

“Go away.”

Is she going psychotic? Are these hallucinations a sign of a mental break? Could her increasing desperation and fear truly be driving her crazy? She feels so fragile and afraid at times. She’s all alone in a new setting with no one to trust. So, Shmi keeps her secrets to herself and hopes the overseer remembers their conversation. He’s drunk and incoherent a lot, so who knows?

To make herself feel better, she reads up on how vivid dreams are common in pregnancy. How hormonal changes plus natural fears can combine for sleepless nights. And that all sounds very plausible in her case. But still . . . the voice seems so real. As the weeks slip by, the whole experience starts to feel increasingly real. The whispering voice in the back of her mind becomes a calm soothing baritone in her ear. She swears she actually hears it now. 

When she’s in her fifth month, Gardulla fires her overseer and hires a new one. The replacement is a woman who is capriciously rude and soon discovered to be vindictive. One day, she summons Shmi to her office.

“You’re getting fat,” the new overseer accuses.

“Yes,” Shmi agrees.

“You’re only fat in your stomach. Are you pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“How come I don’t know about that?”

“I told your predecessor.”

“And he let you keep it?”

“Yes. He was fine with it.”

“Probably because he was drunk,” the woman sniffs. “Who are you sleeping with?”

“No one.”

“Oh, come on—who did you sleep with? Who’s the father?”

Shmi says nothing.

“Go on, tell me. I’m going to have a conversation with him. He owes me credits for his kid.”

Shmi still says nothing.

It angers the new overseer. Wary of how things could escalate, Shmi now confesses the truth. “There is no father.”

The skeptical woman crosses her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This baby wasn’t conceived naturally. I can’t explain it . . . I’m not sure how it happened . . .”

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true,” Shmi protests softly as her eyes fill with tears.

“It happened the usual way, I assume,” the woman sneers. “Well, whatever. When is this kid due?”

“Early next season.”

The woman grunts. “I guess that means it’s getting late to get rid of it.”

“I tried to get rid of it. I went to the clinic at Mos Espa and took the shot twice. It didn’t work,” Shmi laments.

“Well, that’s a problem,” the woman huffs. “Get back to work and I’ll figure out something.”

Naturally, the tale of that interaction gets around Gardulla’s Palace. No one believes her story of a magical conception. They all think she’s lying to hide an affair or a rape. Many seem to pity her for the situation. But others view her askance. As if she might dissolve into tears and erupt into violence at the slightest provocation. It makes her new co-workers distance from her. As a result, Shmi is more and more alone. Its just her, the unborn baby she can’t seem to get rid of, and the voice in her head in the night.

In the bleary-eyed mornings, she worries over the meaning of the unseen man. But in the night, she begins to welcome his unflagging support. Has she invented him as a stand-in for the male partner missing in her life? Other women have husbands and boyfriends to help them through a pregnancy. She has no one. 

The nightly visitations grow more distinct with time. They become less like fuzzy impressions and hazy, half-recalled memories and more like true interactions. It’s frightening. She’s going crazy, Shmi fears. Her mind is truly unhinged, like everyone suspects. For as the months pass and her belly grows, she begins to sense the voice physically. 

It starts with the softest kiss on her cheek. Then a steady hand that brushes hair back from her face. The invisible touch is unnerving at the outset, but it fast becomes comforting. For as her unwanted, befuddling pregnancy progresses, Shmi desperately needs a hug. When everyone around her is cold and distant, the unseen man is warm and welcoming. He says fantastical things that sound so appealing that she wants to believe them. He is her only friend and her sole source of support through an ordeal she can neither understand nor control. And somehow, her imaginary man seems to know that. For he becomes her constant cheerleader.

_Trust in the Force. Have faith. The Force will not forsake its handmaid._

She has no idea what that really means, but it sounds so good. So, she wants to believe it. 

_Do not fear for I am with you. The Force is with you._

She wants to believe it too when the voice says that her unborn child has the Force. That as the child grows within her, that power grows within her temporarily. 

_Life creates the Force and makes it grow. Feel his heartbeat_. _Sense the child full of Force sent to save us all. Rejoice in his power reflected in you._

“I do,” she answers back fervently. But the voice doesn’t acknowledge her response. Can he hear her? It takes a few more of these exchanges before she realizes that they are not exchanges. This is not a conversation. The voice says something and she reacts. That’s all. 

Still, the voice presses from its end for answers. For as much as she seeks to communicate, he does as well.

_Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Let me help you._

But no matter how many times she says her name, the voice never seems to hear her. He repeats quiet requests into the night, begging for a response she cannot seem to give. Each night, they have two one-sided conversations. The only way they seem to reciprocate is through touch. 

_Tell me your name. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Let me help you._

Those are whispered words between torrid, open-mouthed kisses. For they progress fast past the initial salute on the cheek and tepid, chaste touches. She’s full of hormones and craving comfort. He’s covetous of her ripening body and the Force-strong child it shelters.

_Mine._

The word lingers in her mind as his phantom lips kiss her burgeoning belly. His touch is so languid, so worshipful. For a woman mostly used to scorn, the implicit respect is beguiling. She can’t see this man or speak to him, but she’s half in love with him already.

_Mine. One day, I will claim you both. He will be my only begotten son and you will be my holy lady of the Force. I will build you a pedestal and adore you._

“Yes!” Come take her away from this mostly hopeless life of slavery. Come give her the improbable happy ending she longs for with the prince charming she never expected. The life where she has the love and commitment of a good man. The life where she is a free woman who can decide her own future. The life in which no one can sell her or sell her son. 

_Tell me where to find you and I will claim you. I will be husband to you and foster-father to the boy._

In the night, it all feels so possible. But in the cold light of day, Shmi knows her fantasies of a rescue are cruel self-delusion. For there is no romantic lover at midnight. This baby probably doesn’t have the Force. And there will be no one to protect them going forward. But for now, this pleasant company is all she has. So tired Shmi looks forward to the evening when unseen arms envelope her eagerly. She cries on the shoulder of the phantom man who strokes her hair and tells her to have faith and trust in the Force . . . that things will be alright. She relishes the feel of his hands and lips that roam freely. She yields her body completely and glories in the physical surrender. 

Maybe it’s pathetic fantasy, but it’s all she has. And with the uncertain life she leads, this may be all she ever gets. So whether he’s real or not is beside the point. Whoever this man is, he’s getting her through the most difficult time of her already difficult life. For slowly, Shmi is resigning herself to becoming a mother. Somedays, she’s even warming to the idea.

_Name him Anakin_.

She doesn’t know that name. She’s never heard that name.

_It is an old name from an old language that fell out of use a thousand generations ago. It means ‘Force with us.’_

That sounds nice. She says the name out loud, “Anakin,” even though he cannot hear her.

_Anakin will be the Force incarnate, the living Force among us. He will be a boy like any other boy and yet like no other. He will grow into a marvelous man, a microcosm of the universe walking with us, tempted in every way to Light and to Darkness. And one day, he will bring us balance._

She doesn’t understand those words, but she likes them. “Anakin,” she says again.

_I cannot wait to meet him. I will teach him everything I know. You must teach him too. Shelter him in your Light and I will temper him with Darkness. He will be the best of both of us. You shall see. It is his destiny._

The voice always speaks like that—with grandiose promises of family life. Like they are husband and wife awaiting the birth of a much-wanted child. But the voice is probably a figment of her imagination and she’s a slave woman about to bring a fatherless child into a life of slavery. None of these pretty scenarios will ever come to pass. But they are like a lovely daydream—comforting escapism from the rigors of real life. More importantly, they are an expression of hope. And maybe it’s futile hope, but it’s hope all the same. And from hope, comes strength.

There are many people who misunderstand strength. They perceive strength mostly in the context of conflict. Because strong people are fighters who stand up for themselves and their ideas. They speak directly, often loudly, to demand what they want. And if they encounter opposition, they keep demanding. Because strong people make things happen and they don’t compromise. 

Shmi knows she is none of those things. She is a slave who cannot make demands. She avoids conflict whenever possible because she knows she will lose. Her life is a series of compromises and lowered expectations. She has no autonomy. Things happen to her, she doesn’t make things happen. Add in her soft-spoken, don’t-notice-me demeanor, and she is widely perceived to be meek. But, in truth, she’s not meek. She just lives a life of severe limitations she cannot change. Coping with those circumstances makes her strong. But because of her obvious vulnerabilities, no one can see it. No one, that is, except the voice in her head in the night. He is her tireless cheerleader.

_The Force chose you, and the Force does not make mistakes. You can do this. Now concentrate and tell me who you are. Tell me where you are. I will find you and help you._

“I’m Shmi Skywalker. I am a slave to Gardulla the Hutt on Tattooine.” She tries yet again to communicate. But, as always, the voice cannot seem to hear her. It’s probably proof that he’s a hallucination, she has concluded. But she tries again anyway. She might as well.

_Tell me who you are. Tell me where you are. I will find you. Time is running out. You must be in your ninth month now. Concentrate, for your Force is at its strongest now._

“I’m Shmi Skywalker. I am a slave to Gardulla the Hutt in Tattooine. Please, come buy me and buy my baby!” At least buy the boy. Save him from slavery. Give him a future—any future will do. It doesn’t have to be as grand as he promises.

But her efforts are to no avail. She never manages to identify herself. 

Her baby comes into the world with a full head of dark blondish hair. The medic droids assess his vital signs, declare him healthy, and then promptly inject his neck with an explosive chip. It marks him as a slave and it matches the one in her own neck. It will explode if she attempts escape. 

How is this the fate of the boy who is the Force incarnate? Why does this befall the prince sent to rule the galaxy? Who could ever believe that the humble newborn birthed by a slave woman on a dead-end world is the hope for the future? Well, no one. Shmi takes it as proof that all those promises were false. It never occurs to her that her child’s obscurity is intentional . . . that anonymity protects him . . . 

But she gets her happy ending after all. She takes one look at the pink, squalling boy child wrapped in swaddling clothes and falls in love. She hadn’t wanted this child, she had tried to avoid birthing him, but here he is. And he’s perfect. She is relieved to love him, for she feared that she might resent him. 

She names him Anakin, like the voice in the night suggested. It’s a rare name for a special child.

She never hears the voice again. For with her baby’s birth, she loses whatever connection she had to the unseen man. If he even ever existed, that is. Maybe he was just in her mind all along, a crutch to help herself through hard times. She’ll never know. She stops worrying about it. In time, she comes to remember him as something like a guardian angel. He stepped in for a fleeting time to shepherd her though great trauma. For that she will be forever grateful.

Eventually her boy grows old enough to ask about his father. She takes refuge in convenient non-answers for several years. But when Anakin reaches age nine, she decides that he is old enough to understand about his circumstances. Shmi tells her son the truth: that he has no father. The boy is still too young to comprehend sex, but he gets the gist: he is special. So special, in fact, that an angel told her of his arrival. 

“But I’m not special. I’m a slave,” young Anakin protests.

“The angel told me you were special, and I believe him. I believe in you,” she answers.

Not long after that, two Jedi Knights pass through town. They leave with young Anakin and her blessing. For as hard as it is to part with her beloved son, she always hoped this day would come. And truthfully, she would surrender her child to anyone who will lead him out of bondage. She will not let her love for Anakin stand in the way of his future.

The Jedi tell her that her son has the magical Force. It’s confirmation of what the angel told her long ago and what she has since observed for herself. She doesn’t tell the Jedi about the angel’s promises that young Anakin will save them all. She just tells the two men what she firmly believes: that he can help them . . . that he was meant to help them. For she still hopes that the angel’s words will someday come true.

She gives up Anakin without knowing that the angel will find her eventually. He arrives belatedly because he is delayed when his Apprentice takes a sword to him. Too late he comes to claim the boy whose advent he once heralded. But the Jedi have stolen a march on him when they pounced upon young Anakin. The boy is now a very promising Padawan. And by this time, Shmi has been sold yet again. She now belongs to a lonely widower moisture farmer. 

The angel in the black hooded cloak sees he has missed his chance. Had this been years previous, he would have taken care of Shmi and raised the boy as promised. For the angel knows what his usurping Apprentice knows: that he who controls the Chosen One controls the Force. But it’s too late for the Skywalkers to be a happy family. And since the Jedi forbid attachments, poor Shmi is of no further use going forward. 

Still, the angel is magnanimous. He waves a spindly hand before Shmi’s new moisture farmer slave master. The angel intones his commands softly: you will free this woman, you will marry this woman, you will make her happy. It’s a small thing, but it means everything to the anonymous woman who births Darth Vader. And now, the angel—the very Dark, fearsome angel—withdraws. He once watched over the mother, but now he will watch over the son from afar. And one day, he plots, he will claim the boy. For everything he told the mother long ago was true. The child is the Force made flesh sent to rule the galaxy. And most importantly, that child is his.


	4. chapter 4 Original Sin

_Circa 15ABY, New Republic Era_

_Coruscant, the Second Galactic Republic_

The transmission connects and a slightly fuzzy hologram of her brother forms. “Hello,” Luke smiles.

She’s not smiling. She gets right to the point. “We need to talk about Ben.”

“What did he do this time?”

“He choked the neighbor’s dog with the Force.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, dead!” She briefs him on the details. “The dog barks a lot and it was left out on the landing pad barking away while Ben was doing homework. It distracted him. So, he choked it.”

“It’s a dog.”

“That’s not the point!” she huffs at this lackluster response. “He needs to know that he can’t solve problems by killing people.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say. Most days, that kid never talks. He always has his nose in a datapad.” With a sigh, she complains, “Ask him a question and he will pretend not to hear until you have asked two more times at an ever-increasing volume. I have to yell to get his attention. It’s annoying and disrespectful.” In fact, she’s gets mad just thinking about it. Ben does it just to annoy her, she suspects. It works every time.

Luke shrugs and gently prods. “He won’t talk if you talk over him and talk for him.”

She bites her lip guiltily. “Look, I was upset. I may have lost my temper.”

“I can see that. What did Han say?”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Gone again?”

“Yes.”

The hologram version of her brother sits back and considers how to handle the situation. But she already knows the solution. And thus resumes a well-rehearsed argument between them. “Ben needs more guidance.” Guidance meaning some good old-fashioned Jedi discipline.

But the galaxy’s reigning Jedi Master shakes his head no. “He’s too young to train.”

“The old Order trained kids from toddler age.”

“I’m not doing that. Like I’m not doing the ‘no attachments’ thing. It was extreme and it didn’t work. People need to be happy and they need a degree of maturity before they confront their power. I don’t want to remake the Order with a lot of rules, Leia. I would prefer that my students set limits for themselves because they have the wisdom and understanding to impose self-discipline.”

“That all sounds fine except Ben doesn’t have any self-discipline. That kid has zero impulse control.” That’s the problem. 

“He’s ten.”

“Almost eleven,” she corrects.

“Look, Force strong kids are hard. Their abilities and senses far outpace their maturity for years.”

She’s heard it all before. It’s not persuasive. “I was a Force strong kid and I wasn’t killing pets as a fifth grader!” she retorts. “You weren’t either! This is way worse than what he did to the poor teacher last year. Luke, this was unnecessary and cruel.” And deeply disturbing.

Luke does not dispute her. For once, it appears like he’s taking her trepidation seriously.

She tries again. “Ben needs guidance.”

“When he’s old enough, I will train him.”

“Train him now!” she urges. Now before it’s too late.

But, like always, her twin resists. “Leia, I can’t guide him properly without telling him the truth. The whole truth.” Those words now open a new front in their verbal battle.

She’s having none of it. “Of course, you can!”

“He needs to know the truth.”

“We’ll tell him when he’s old enough.”

“When is that?”

“Not now.”

“He has a power he doesn’t understand and cannot control. But I can’t guide him unless he knows the complete context. Leia, he needs to know what happened to his grandfather—“

“No!” 

“—as a cautionary tale. Ben needs to comprehend the risks. Because it’s a slippery slope from killing dogs to killing people.”

“Yes! That’s my point!” Why is Luke fighting her on this? Can’t he see the urgency of the problem? Things are getting worse.

Her brother sighs and grumbles, “Was it a yappy dog?”

“Yes.”

“I hate yappy dogs.”

“Yes, but you don’t kill them.”

Luke smiles a little wryly. “I might be tempted.”

“You would not. But this is exactly the conversation you should have with him. That we all have temptations to do bad things and he especially has the means to act on them. That’s why he must be doubly cautious not to give in to anger,” she argues angrily.

“Why can’t you tell him that?” Luke posits.

“I’m not a Jedi. It has more weight coming from you.”

“You are the student I trained the most,” he counters.

“Maybe so, but I’m not a Jedi. Ben is the reason I’m not a Jedi.” Well, one of the reasons. It’s a sore point. She makes a face and asserts, “I serve in other ways now.”

Luke leans forward in his chair. “Someday someone will discover the truth. No, Leia,” he raises a forestalling hand to her immediate objection, “Hear me out. If we don’t tell him, Ben might learn it from someone else. That would be a disaster.”

She dismisses the concern. “No one would believe it.”

“Ben will. He will search his feelings and know it to be true. And then, he will be betrayed and angry. Leia, listen to me,” Luke implores. “Ben will be perfectly poised to turn to the Dark Side when he realizes what a terrible secret we have kept from him.”

She stubbornly disagrees. “We are protecting him . . . from himself.” And from the terrible legacy that is his shameful grandfather.

“Is that all we’re doing?”

She meets Luke’s eyes across the lightyears of distance between them. She knows her brother will never say it, but he’s concerned she’s protecting her political career as well. And truthfully, that is a consideration. But it’s not the sole reason for her view. Her strategy of delay makes sense for everyone. Why can’t Luke see that?

When the silence hangs heavy between them, Luke speaks emphatically. “Ten is too young to train. If he’s too young to know the truth, then he’s too young to train.”

“When is the right age?” she challenges.

“You tell me,” he puts the question right back at her. “When are you going to agree to tell him?”

“We were grown adults when we learned the truth. We were fully formed adults with a moral compass and a well-developed sense of self.”

“Yes, and it still rocked our worlds.”

“That’s my point exactly! He’s too young! He’s not ready for the burden.”

Luke shakes his head. “We can’t wait until he’s grown. That’s too long.”

“Sure, we can. By then, you will have taught him all you know and he will have the perspective to understand his heritage. He will see the tragic hubris of Anakin Skywalker and not fixate on the red sword, the armies, and the flashy suit,” she reasons.

“Leia, can’t you see that this delay is a mistake? You are going down a path with Ben that I cannot follow—“

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“This is dangerous!” Luke finally loses his habitual Jedi cool.

She just fumes.

Her brother shoots her a look. “You know, you have a role to play here as well. You are perfectly capable of teaching him the basics.”

“When? You know I’m busy.”

“He’s your son. Make time for him.”

“I also have a Republic to run,” she reminds him.

“I know, but you need to make more time for him. When was the last time you spent time with him?”

What kind of question is that? “He lives with me.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

She squirms in her seat. Does Luke know that she sometimes avoids Ben? Her life is hard. Much harder than she lets on. Most days start early and run late. She’s tired and worn down when she gets home. Often, Ben is already in his room ready for bed. She pokes her head in to say goodnight before she dismisses the nanny and sits down to decompress. Because some days, Ben is the last thing she wants to deal with.

“Maybe the kid just needs more attention. Have you considered that perhaps he’s acting out to get attention?”

“No. That’s not it.”

“Would you even know?”

She’s offended. “My mother was a queen. She ran our world and managed to raise me. I wasn’t off making trouble just to get a pat on the head.” She was raised in a tradition of public service by her adoptive parents and she fully intends to continue that role for herself. She won’t be mom-shamed into giving up her dreams for her troublesome, unappreciative kid.

“You had Bail Organa,” her brother reminds her. “He took you everywhere with him. When was the last time you took Ben anywhere?”

She looks away. “He doesn’t want to sit through committee meetings.”

“He needs more attention. He needs to see your example.” 

Here they go again. This call has gone the direction their conversations about Ben always seem to go: that she’s doing too much and she should scale back to spend more time with her son. It all boils down to this: that she is the real problem. Well, she resents that sentiment. And is it so bad to want something for herself? Because that whole devoted wife and doting mother thing hasn’t really worked out. Thank the Force she has her work. Otherwise, she would be a complete failure in life. 

Still, it's a bit humiliating to admit the truth of how distant she feels from her own child. “I can’t get through to Ben,” she sighs. “He needs your example, Luke. He needs a father figure and a teacher. Han’s not around and, well, Han’s . . . Han. And he doesn’t have the Force.” 

“You’re thinking about this all wrong. Maybe the Force isn’t the problem.”

“Of course, the Force is the problem! In another kid, they hit or mouth off. You can deal with it. But with Ben, the violence could be deadly. There is little room for mistakes when they can easily result in tragedy!” 

Luke’s not opposing her to oppose her, she knows. Her brother is always willing to help. He just sees the problem and the solutions very differently than she does. But that dead dog is a wakeup call, she firmly believes. If they continue to look the other way, they could end up complicit to Ben’s struggles. He’ll be the kid who takes his father’s blaster to school and shoots up the cafeteria one random Tuesday. She’ll get the blame, too. They always blame the mother. 

Can you admit that you don’t like your own kid? Because she doesn’t. Introverted, withdrawn Ben is nothing like her or Han. It’s not just a phase. Even as a baby, he needed more attention than she could give. As an adolescent, Ben is now firmly in the camp of passive aggressive. She doesn’t have time for that and she certainly doesn’t have the temperament. She’s a direct person by nature and she appreciates people who are upfront about what they want and need. It takes the guesswork out of things.

“I’m really worried that we’re losing him . . .” She bites her lip and laments, “But maybe that is his destiny . . . ”

The galaxy’s legendary Jedi lets her vent her fears before he calmly points out. “Ben has a choice, like everyone else. No one is destined to be Dark. Leia, you talk about him like he’s some sort of monster in the making. He’s not that.”

“Not yet.”

Luke looks up sharply “Leia!”

“Look, I’m afraid of him! I’m afraid for him!”

Luke frowns at this admission. He probes, “Are you sure you’re not overreacting? Ben’s a good kid at heart. A little impulsive, a little moody, a little nerdy. But all of that will temper in time. He’s in an awkward phase, that’s all. All boys have an aggressive streak.”

“Does he have to kill someone for you to realize the risks?” she nearly shrieks. “Isn’t that poor dog enough?” Why does Luke refuse to fact facts? Truthfully, she resents that she gets the hard kid and the absent husband. She’s got enough on her plate already. It’s too much. Someone else needs to step up, and since it won’t be Han, it has to be Luke. 

Her brother seems to get more calm in the face of her increasing agitation. Sounding very much the measured Jedi Master, he suggests, “Have you talked to Ben? Not in the moment, but later when he’s calm and you’re calm?”

She blinks at her brother’s failure to grasp the situation. Because these days, she never feels calm. She’s stressed and pulled in many directions by complex problems that don’t have easy solutions. Ben is just one on a long list of issues to manage. She grumbles, “I tried. You know I’m not patient. And I was angry.”

“You're still angry.”

“Yes. In the end, I just had to walk away.”

Luke nods along. “Let him see that. Let him see that you struggle at times with your emotions. With fear and anger. We all do.”

“Oh, he knows I’m angry.”

“But does he also know you love him?”

She is stung at this question. “Of course!” She loves her son. She absolutely loves her son. That’s why she’s so fearful for his future.

Luke starts in on his favorite refrain again. “We need to tell him.”

She refuses to resume that conversation. She moves on. “He’s getting those obsessions again.”

“Yeah? What is it this time?”

“The Clone Wars.”

“The Clone Wars? Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“They studied it in school. Ben learned the wrong lesson. He thinks the Separatists were right. Can you believe that? Here I am busting my ass to rebuild the Republic and my own son is a Separatist!” That realization had really shocked her. Then, it had incensed her. “It’s like he opposes me! Like I’m raising General Grievous. Gods, I can’t imagine what the teenage years will be like.” She tries not to think about it. 

“Does he have any friends?”

“No. I can’t get him interested in sports or activities either. He just reads. That kid reads way too much. It’s like he’s in his own world.”

“What is he reading?”

“I checked his datapad last week. It’s mostly Clone Wars stuff and video games. He plays with that old flight simulator Han got him too. But that’s it—war, games, and flying, that’s all he’s interested in.”

“He needs more balance,” Luke says, pulling at his beard thoughtfully. Blue eyes hold her gaze as he suggests gently, “It sounds like you could use some balance as well.”

Is he going to tell her to take a vacation again? She’s annoyed. “There is no work life balance for people like me. This isn’t a normal job.”

“I’m not talking about your schedule.”

Her eyes narrow. She is taken aback and instantly defensive. “You think I’m going Dark too, is that it?”

Luke is his zen Jedi self in the face of her shrillness. “I think you are unhappy and I want to help.”

“You can help by taking Ben off my hands for the summer.” This single mother gig is hard and she needs a break.

“Leia—" he begins.

But she cuts him off as her emotions suddenly surge. It spills a torrent of despair out of her mouth. “I feel like I’m failing, Luke. I’m scared and I’m angry and I resent him, alright? I resent my own son!” There. She said it. And she’s miserable for it. But that doesn’t make it any less true.

Why couldn’t she have a neat and tidy little girl who sits up straight at the table and is presentable to strangers? A little girl who doesn’t fidget at school and who can smile and make eye contact? She would braid her hair and teach her manners and share all the wisdom Queen Breha passed down to her adopted Crown Princess long ago. They would have long mother-daughter talks about Alderaan and leadership and wear coordinating dresses. 

But instead, she gets a sullen, often slovenly boy who likes to pick fights. She doesn’t understand him and she’s close to giving up trying. Ben’s all ears and nose, his body growing so fast that much of it is out of proportion. It makes for extreme awkwardness and lack of coordination. The kid is forever tripping over his feet, which are already man-sized as a preteen. Force help her when puberty kicks in with the pimples and the hormones. How bad will his tantrums be then? He won’t be looking at Clone Wars era recruiting posters on the holonet either. She shudders to think of what she’ll find on his datapad in the years to come. 

Does Luke see how tense things have become? He does. But does he also see how much she loves Ben? Because you can love someone and still not like them. You can want them in your life but also want to change them. And therein lies the problem. 

Luke gives his best Jedi Master impression now as he strokes at his beard. “Maybe you should stop trying to rule the galaxy.”

What?? “I’m not!” she retorts hotly. She’s indignant at the very suggestion. “The people rule the galaxy! That was point of the Rebellion. We didn’t kill millions of people for . . . for . . .”

“That came out wrong,” Luke immediately backtracks. “I just mean that you’re doing too much. You have too many responsibilities.”

“That’s why I am asking for your help,” she grinds out. And here comes round two of the guilt inducing ‘you need to scale back’ conversation she doesn’t want to hear. “We were supposed to be a family. You, me, Han . . . we are a family despite all that had been done to separate us. From adoption, to Vader, to carbonite, to the war, nothing was going to keep us apart. But now look at us. Han’s off racing and you’re off building your temple and I’m building the Republic . . . It’s all good, it’s just . . .”

“Hard,” he finishes. 

“Yes.”

This is all harder than she thought. She remembers being elated at Endor and then again at Jakku. Looking back from her current vantage point, it seems so naive. Rebuilding the Republic sounded easy until they actually did it. For what they say is true: democracy is messy and inefficient. But it’s the most free, most fair way to do things. And after so many people died in the war, she’s committed to seeing the New Republic through to completion. She vowed long ago that their sacrifice will not be in vain. The future they fought and died for will come to fruition on her watch. Plus, she’s determined there will never be another Alderaan. 

Maybe people never take big steps and dare big things without being a little bit delusional. She recalls being ecstatically happy on her wedding day, full of big plans for how she and Han would make their own beginning while the New Republic was beginning as well. The future was bright for them personally and for the galaxy. Finally, they could relax about things. No more living life on the run, in hiding. But over a decade later, Han has essentially moved out even though they are technically still married. She goes months without talking to him. When he does check in, it’s usually a short message telling her what system he’s in currently. Life has turned out to be lonely in a way she never expected. She’s miserable and dissatisfied. 

How did they get here? Where did it all go wrong? She’s honestly not sure.

She’s thought on and off about trying again with Han. The last counselor they saw thought things were salvageable. That if she gave Han enough space and stopped making demands, they could rediscover their spark and stop bickering. But Han seemed to take that as permission to disappear entirely. And while she can manage his long absences by immersing herself in work, young Ben doesn’t have that outlet. Lately, he’s stopped asking about his father. But when she checked his datapad search history, ‘Han Solo,’ ‘Millennium Falcon,’ and ‘space racing’ featured prominently. What can she do about it? Probably nothing. And frankly, she’s tired of making excuses for her absent husband. So, if Ben resents him later in life, maybe Han deserves it.

“Just take Ben for the summer,” she pleads with her brother. “That’s all I ask. It will do him good to get out of Coruscant and get his nose out of his datapad. I don’t like him reading about war so much.”

“Have you talked to him about war?”

“It’s not my favorite topic.”

“That’s why you should talk to him. So he learns the human cost to war, not just the dry textbook narrative.”

“You’re the hero,” she points out.

“We’re all heroes, Leia. He knows it too. We are big shoes to fill.”

“See? You know what to do. Luke, you are the perfect role model. There’s so much Ben can learn from you. And you have a way with him— you always have.”

“Are you sure Han doesn’t want him for the summer? Chewie loves Ben.”

She looks away and grumbles, “I can’t trust Han to handle him. He doesn’t understand the Force and he refuses to try to understand. You’re my only hope in this, Luke. I can trust you.” She looks down as she summarizes, “Han’s unreliable.”

Luke nods slowly. They both know Han Solo’s shortcomings. “Okay. I’ll take him. But just for the summer. School is good for him. He needs to be around peers—“

“He has no peers.”

“Maybe not in the Force, but in life he will. I refuse to sequester Force strong kids in my temple away from real people and real life. This is not a cult, and I do not want to promote arrogance.”

“Okay. Just the summer then.” She’ll take what she can get.

“So, when does school let out? Should I come pick him up in a few weeks?”

“Don't bother. I’ll send a ship with him and the nanny.”

“Maybe you should come yourself.”

“I can’t spare the time. The Senate’s going into special session at the end of the month.”

Luke frowns. “Ben might think this is punishment. That you’re sending him away.”

“This is training, not punishment. I’ll call it Jedi summer camp. Don’t worry.”

Luke nods but cautions, “Will Han be okay with it?”

“Does it matter?”

“He’s his father.”

“Only technically. I think Han’s pretty much checked out from us.” Meaning that she drove him away again . . . maybe for good this time. 

“I’m sorry, Leia.”

She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. “Me too. He’s not the family man type. I guess I always knew that.” 

Han never pretended anything to the contrary. The humdrum day-to-day political spouse role never appealed to her smuggler husband and he wasn’t keen on being Mister Mom. But the bigger issue is that Han’s not a respectable guy and never will be. He’s still the endearing scoundrel she fell in love with on the Death Star. And while that might make him dashing, it doesn’t make him good marriage material, especially for a politician. Han has too much wanderlust to be happy for long on Coruscant. He’s forever chasing some shady deal in some get-rich-quick scheme. And it’s not like they need the credits. It’s because he’s bored and looking for adventure.

Luke, of course, knows all that. He ventures, “Do you want me to talk to Han?”

She looks up. “Would you do that?” Mostly, she tries to keep her brother out of her marital issues. It’s not fair to put Luke in the middle.

But her goodhearted brother is ever trying to help. Luke promises, “I’ll try. Maybe I can get him to drop by the Academy for a few weeks this summer when Ben’s here.”

“That would be nice.” It’s a good plan that might work, she thinks. Because maybe Han will come to see his son if he doesn’t also have to see her. “Thank you, Luke,” she says with utmost sincerity. “I have no one else to turn to.”

Only her brother understands what’s really at stake here. All his work to re-establish the Jedi Order and all her effort to re-found the Republic could come to nothing if Ben Solo goes Dark. The consequences of another fallen Skywalker could be dire for the galaxy. She doesn’t even want to think about it. Except some nights, she can’t stop thinking about it. 

“It will be alright.”

Luke sounds certain and it gives her encouragement. It’s the hope she needs, for she has a bad feeling about this.

“Call me any time. Don’t worry about the time difference.”

She nods. “I will.”

“I mean it, Leia.”

“I know.”

Luke smiles and disconnects, but not before he wishes her “May the Force be with you.” 

It’s only after they hang up that it occurs to her that she never asked Luke about himself. About how the training temple is coming, about how his students are doing, and about his latest achievements in the Force. Those omissions prompt a fresh round of guilt. Because for all her frustrations with getting the New Republic government up and running, at least she has help. Luke is basically singlehandedly reinventing the Jedi Order. His job is in some ways, much harder than hers. And that causes her to reflect that whether it’s her current position as a Senator, the good old days with the Rebellion, or her brief stint in-between as a Jedi Padawan, the hardest, most daunting job she’s ever had is as a mother. No one tells you that at the outset. But it’s true.


	5. story notes

Hello and thanks for reading. 

These short stories are meant to feel raw. These are women who feel desperate, overwhelmed, and resentful. It’s from their circumstances in life and from the failings of the men they love. We catch these heroines at moments of big, fateful decisions that will have repercussions which reverberate far into the future for the galaxy at large. But these moments are also highly personal decisions the women make for themselves.

Slave Shmi Skywalker is the only truly powerless one of the four. Mother Talzin is Dathomir’s massively Force powered leader. Leia Organa is the rebellion hero, the secret Skywalker daughter, and a preeminent politician of her day. Even the cosseted wife and mother Fulvia, Lady Collapse, whose power is derivative of her clan, is formidable in her own right. But still, all of them are brought to crisis by their roles are mothers. They are new mothers to infants (Shmi and Fulvia) and mothers to adolescents (Mother Talzin and Leia Organa). Some have long experience with motherhood, others do not. But that role is the crux of their drama. Nothing brings a woman to her knees like risk/harm/threat to her child and nothing makes her more vulnerable than the state of being mommy. Friends, coworkers and bosses come and go, husbands and lovers come and go, even siblings can become lost or estranged, but for the most part the mother-child relationship is lifelong. You can’t quit and it doesn’t end until one of you dies.

Why am I writing about this? Because the pandemic has put mothers in a bind. I feel like mothers are the unsung heroes of Covid-19. Very few of the mothers in my world work outside the home. But during the summer, I ran into one school mom who works part time as an accountant. I asked her how she and the twins were doing and she burst into tears. There she was crying her eyes out in a grocery store parking lot. Another mom friend in financial services recently quit her job. She couldn’t handle three kids and a pandemic. Now these moms are atypical. They each work for their own goals, not to put food on the table. One has a CEO husband, for example. They have housekeepers and nannies and disposable income to spare. And yet they couldn’t do it. I can only imagine how hard it is for mothers with regular lives. Especially single mothers with less support and fewer resources. 

But women’s lives vary and their experiences vary as well. So while the single childless women I know are feeling isolated and terribly lonely, the mothers I know are ready to disappear. Craving space and time alone. Because feeding everyone 3 meals a day, plus home schooling, plus someone always in the house (usually making a mess or needing attention) has gotten old. I’ve run out of ideas for family fun to keep everyone entertained. I’m done baking and organizing closets. There is nothing left to say to my husband. I am so over breaking up sibling fights. I cannot bear the load of everyone else’s emotional drama 24-7. By now, I have run the dishwasher more times in the last six months than I ever thought possible. I just want it all to end and life to be normal. Except that doesn’t appear to be where we are headed in the short term.

Thankfully, things have improved a lot since the spring/summer. We are back in town. The kids are now in school in-person full time, even if the school day is 2 hours shorter (fourth grade is now shorter than pre-k usually is). Most days, my husband goes to the office now. So, I have some personal space at long last. But all that time in close quarters has left its mark. Some days, I just want them all to go away and no one to need me. I feel myself pulling back. Last week, someone commented how my boys are growing up and asked if I missed them small. Me: Hell, no. Can they go to college already? When summer was at its slowest in July, I had persistent fantasies of leaving them all. Frankly, it got a little scary. But hopefully, things will reach a new status quo and there will be some diversions to keep it all in perspective. But until then, I will wait for better days and keep writing stories on my phone. 

Lilith, Mother Talzin

I have an entire story in my head for Mother Talzin, the witch Force goddess of Dathomir. She rules a matrilineal coven where women dominate. The witches are a cooperative bunch who worship life and live at a respectful ‘separate and not quite equal’ distance from their men. The earthy, unintimidated, and uninhibited witches are sex positive in a way that will shock and seduce Sheev Palpatine when he arrives on a mission from his Master Darth Plagueis. The witches are also very pro-family and pro-procreation in a twist on the normal feminist mindset. In essence, two worlds will collide: the patriarchal Sith and the matriarchal witches. They will have different views on power, the Force, politics, gender roles, and sex. Sheev will get completely worked over by Lilith Talzin before he slinks away with her firstborn son Maul. The Sith kidnapping of young Maul is motivated by the concern that Maul is the Chosen One. It will set up a longstanding feud between Mother Talzin and Darth Sidious that will get resolved by genocide during the Clone Wars. That conflict is the context of the pathos of Darth Maul in my story _Rule of Two_. For I have come around to the idea that Darth Maul—not Darth Vader—is the true tragic figure of Star Wars. 

Fulvia, Lady Collapse

Fulvia’s tale was an idea I thought about for the resolution of _Taking the Veil_. I wanted Tosca, Lady Struct to flee to the Republic with the Emperor’s secret baby son. In that story, Emperor Vitiate is terrified of potential rivals and will not tolerate any exceptionally Force strong male infants to live, especially his own son. Moreover, Vitiate is afraid of the Republic, even as he is fascinated by it and the Jedi. So the idea of having his lover flee there with his kid would push all of his buttons. But in the end, I rejected that resolution for _Taking the Veil_. The idea stuck with me and it finds its expression here.

Who is this baby Revan? He’s the Jedi who goes to the Dark Side to save the ungrateful Republic. After a long and bitter relationship with the Jedi (who kick him out) and the Senate (who are his sometime ally), Revan sets out to kill the Sith Emperor Vitiate (who Revan has discovered is behind the Mandalorian attack on the Republic.). Revan ends up Vitiate’s frenemy prisoner for something like three centuries. Disgraced Jedi, sometime Sith, and preeminent figure of the SWTOR era, Revan is THE protagonist for everyone that matters. My story _Recalled to Life_ is a tepid attempt at writing him.

Shmi Skywalker

Slave Shmi is a complete victim in official canon. She lives a terrible life and dies a terrible death. She’s basically the archetype for the long-suffering mother. Poor Shmi is the unwitting vessel for the Chosen One, space Jesus. So naturally, I thought Shmi needed Virgin Mary vibes. One day, I’m going to write bible fan fiction, but this is the closest I expect to get in the Star Wars universe. 

The idea of an exceptionally Force strong child in the womb giving its mother temporary Force strength is an idea that first appears in _Taking the Veil_. Pregnant Tosca has visions of her unborn son’s future which she mistakes as visions of her lover’s past. 

Many of my Reylo fics, but also my Imperial era stories _Twilight of the Gods_ and _Rule of Two_ , feature wily Darth Plagueis the Wise. He is the Dark Sith who becomes so powerful that the Force strikes back at him. What is his offense? He wants to be a Dark god. He wants to create life. And . . . he does. He is Anakin Skywalker’s father in the Force, which makes for an awkward ‘I am your father’ moment in _Twilight of the Gods_. Now, in many of my stories, Plagueis is a lady’s man. He’s often witty, always debonair, and nearly always gallant. Some of that flavor is here. 

Leia Organa

Carrie Fisher’s untimely death really limited how her story could be resolved in Episode 9. I acknowledge that fact. But having said that, nothing excuses the truly awful writing of Episode 9. From start to end, the movie is terrible. Leia’s ‘I’ll just lay down and kill myself in the Force attempting to reach my wayward son’ death has so many problems that I can’t begin to list them. After all, Leia just ran away from Kylo at the end of Episode 8 rather than stay to face him. She even tells Luke’s Force projection that her son is gone, which pretty much sounds like she has given up hope. But I digress.

I have written different versions of Kylo’s massacre at the Jedi temple. Sometimes it is intentional. Other times, it is from an accidental use of Dark power. Usually Luke is the bad guy and Kylo is the victim, at least in Kylo’s mind. But what’s the setup behind all that? It’s the decision to send young Ben Solo to the Jedi temple in the first place. I wanted to write that backstory. In my mind, Luke starts out trying to help. But he’s initially a little blind to the Darkness in his nephew just like he is blind to the Darkness in himself. Leia can see it, but she feels powerless to prevent it. And, maybe, that’s true. For in my head canon, the line of the Chosen Ones is equal parts Light and Dark. The harder you try to repress your Darkness, the more it asserts itself. In Luke’s case, it will assert itself spectacularly. 

Leia’s in a tough spot fighting the legacy of Darth Vader in herself and in her son. She’s got plenty of resources at her disposal and yet still the decisions are unclear. And isn’t that a truth of life? All the money and power in the world doesn’t necessarily solve your problems. But if anyone can raise a young Jedi boy right, it’s got to be the Light Side heroes and stalwart defenders of democracy Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa, right? Wrong. And here’s the thing—with the Skywalkers in particular, good intentions often go badly awry. They certainly will with Ben Solo. But a mother can only do her best under the circumstances. 

There’s a lot of implicit criticism for mothers who want things for themselves. The sacrificing/long suffering mother trope is deeply ingrained in our culture. Mothers often feel the need to explain themselves against the presumption that they’re being selfish with their time or money. It’s a true bind. But it’s doubly hard because women often find themselves torn between their many competing priorities. Here Leia feels an obligation to the Republic, to her own ambitions, and to her son. She’s frustrated and unhappy.

I hope these stories were fun, thought provoking diversions. In my writing, I like to weave personal conflicts against the backdrop of the Force and political events. Having individuals confront larger issues is what gives a story an epic feel. It gives seemingly small personal decisions a role in galactic history. It’s also a way to make clear that women matter in the Star Wars universe. As I have said before in other story notes and through several characters’ mouths, you don’t have to swing a sword and have the Force to make history in Star Wars. Power and influence take many forms, and often they are female. Thanks for reading.


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